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REJUVENATED 

By MRS. JAMES C. FIFIELD 

Author ii H'icks Jarou" 

Vv > ... » .. LJ. 



Copyright 1928 by 
The Midwest Company 
Publishers 
Minneapolis, Minn. 


To the girls 
who work with me 
this book is lovingly dedicated ♦ 


AUG 31 1928 


©Cl A1054061 





CHAPTER I. 


Hicks Jarou sat on one of the long benches in Central Park, 
reading. It was unusually warm, for the first of January, and 
even at this early hour there were many, beside himself, who 
had come out to enjoy the springlike atmosphere. He was 
reading a small, curiously bound book, that fitted comfortably 
into his overcoat pocket. It was in Sanscrit, in bold print that 
might have attracted the attention of the curious passerby, had 
not the man, himself, been so well worth looking at. He was 
not much above medium height, but there was something in the 
way he held himself that always attracted attention and singled 
him out from a crowd. His head was held proudly, his 
shoulders were broad, and well-shaped, and his back was flat 
and straight. He never allowed himself to sag. He would have 
told one who happened to be interested that the human frame 
would never look old if one never allowed the muscles of the 
abdominal region to become soft and stringy. Although his 
whole attention seemed to be centered on his book, he was not 
unaware of the slow approach of two girls. It was almost as if 
he had been expecting them, for a slow smile curved the corners 
of his sensitive mouth. He raised his eyes, casually, and 
glanced at them. His eyes were beautiful—dark, melancholy, 
with the steadfast gaze of the scientific observer. They rested, 
for a moment, on the smaller of the two girls, and she thrilled 
at their gaze—but was too much interested in telling what she 
was thinking about something to study the peculiar sensation 
his glance had given her. And it evidently meant nothing, any¬ 
how, for again he became so interested in his book that he paid 
no seeming attention to his surroundings. 

“Let’s sit here a minute,” said the smaller of the two girls, 
taking a seat on the end of the bench farthest from the stranger. 
Then, as her companion objected with an expressive glance at 

5 


6 


REJUVENATED 


the reader, “he’ll never know we’re here; he’s a book hound.” 
Again the little furtive smile twitched the lips of the stranger, 
but he turned a leaf of his book, displaying the queer charac¬ 
ters, and the girl raised her eyebrows significantly and whis¬ 
pered “foreigner.” That settled it with her companion. They 
would stay where they were. It was not very impolite to intrude 
upon a foreigner. If he didn’t like it, he could move. 

“What I was thinking, Doris Marie,” said the taller of the 
two girls, “is this: Here are you and I—acting and thinking just 
about as usual, and yet we’ve both heard absolutely astonishing 
news within the hour. I don’t really feel any different, in a 
way, since we saw that fortune teller, and yet I’ve been told 
that I’ll be married within the year, and I’m not even engaged— 
nor have I a sweetie whom I’d think of marrying.” 

“I don’t believe a darned word that woman said,” replied her 
companion, lighting a cigarette. 

“That is because what she said didn’t happen to please you,” 
giggled the first speaker. “You didn’t like to hear the sad news 
that all the bunch would be married before you were.” 

“If I really believed she knew anything about it, I’d go right 
out, pick me a man, marry him, and show the bunch who’d be 
the first, instead of the last, to get married.” 

The other girl giggled delightedly. “I believe you would, 
Doris Marie,” she said appreciatively; “I do believe you’d do 
that very thing. And heaven help the man you picked on if he 
didn’t happen to want to marry you.” 

“Well,” Doris Marie defended herself, “that’s the way the 
world is going to be—matrimonially speaking—and we young 
people are the ones destined to start the ball rolling. The time 
is right at hand when the female of the species will do all the 
proposing. She has made selections to suit herself for lo these 
many years—but she has been hampered in appropriating the 
man of her choice by the silly custom of waiting for the man to 
propose. Now, I shall never do that. When I decide to marry, 
I’m going to marry.” She shot a furtive glance at the man on 


REJ UVENA TED 


7 


the other end of the bench as she said this. She was wondering 
if he was listening, and if she shocked him by her progressive 
views—but he read on. Evidently, there was something in the 
curiously printed book that amused him, however. When Doris 
Marie resumed her conversation, with the intention of airing 
many more of her opinions, he raised his eyes and studied the 
two girls more carefully. Flappers, both of them. They were 
both smoking, both wore their coats unbuttoned over very 
flimsy gowns, both wore overshoes over thin stockings—over¬ 
shoes that were not buckled but flapped grotesquely with every 
motion of their slender legs, that were practically exposed to 
the elements for a distance of at least four inches above their 
knees. Why the overshoes? 

Doris Marie Palmer—the stranger could have spoken her 
name without an introduction—was a very beautiful girl with 
bright brown eyes, and glossy brown hair—both hair and eyes 
so dark that they usually passed for black. She was the most 
popular girl of the season. She had quick, nervous motions, like 
an inquisitive bird that was also wary—and a decisive manner 
that emphasized the good opinion she held of her own views on 
any topic that might be uppermost. She was a natural leader, 
accustomed to having her own way, and so deftly did she man¬ 
age it that no one seemed to object very strenuously. 

Joe-Anne Burnham—the stranger could also have called her 
by name—was not beautiful, like Doris Marie, nor was she 
usually singled out from a crowd as worthy of special study. 
She and Doris Marie were always together, and while she was 
well aware that her companion received all the attention, that 
fact never gave her a moment's anxiety. In fact, nothing gave 
her much anxiety. She was of a very placid nature, easy to live 
with, always happy, and, which is more important, always 
interested. Always interesting too, if one took the trouble to 
find out about that. Joe-Anne had auburn hair and dark grey 
eyes, with a nose a little too retrousse, and her rather wide 


8 


REJUVENATED 


mouth turned up at the corners when she laughed—which was 
most of the time—in an absolutely fascinating manner. 

Those who knew her were apt to jeer at Joe-Anne’s notions. 
They didn’t accept all she said as implicitly as they did the pro¬ 
nouncements of Doris Marie—and yet, when bored, they always 
looked to Joe-Anne to relieve the situation. For instance—her 
name: she had been christened Joan—but an interview with a 
numerologist had convinced her that the name was not lucky 
for her, because in some mysterious way it did not agree with 
the date of her birth—but by changing it to Joe-Anne all the 
ill luck was circumvented. And she had changed it—not only 
when signing it to her letters, but so effectively that she, as well 
as her friends, now thought of her as Joe-Anne Burnham—and 
even her parents were sometimes surprised to find themselves 
spelling her name in that outlandish way when writing about her 
to interested relatives. So, as will be seen, while Joe-Anne did 
not seem to be a very important member of “the bunch”, she did 
have influence. As a matter of fact, she had more influence 
than Doris Marie—but no one guessed that. Doris Marie was 
unanimously voted the leader of “the bunch.” 

The girls had said nearly all they wanted to say about for¬ 
tunes that had been accorded them by the celebrated palmist 
they had visited that morning, and were about to go on their 
way when the stranger accosted them. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said courteously, “but that palmist 
could not have known her business very well. I shouldn’t take 
her prophecies too literally, if I were you.” 

“I don’t,” replied Doris Marie, shortly, and rose as if to 
leave at once. She wore her haughtiest air. She did not like 
being accosted by strangers, no matter how much she might 
have invited it, by furtive glances into melancholy and very 
fascinating dark eyes. Besides the man was too old, in her 
opinion, to be interesting. He had white hair—but his face did 
not look as old as his hair. He might have been shell-shocked 
in the late war—but he didn’t particularly interest her, except 


REJUVENATED 


9 


when she looked into his eyes—and then she was thrilled— 
thrilled uncomfortably, and she didn’t much like being aroused 
emotionally. It was time for her to assume her haughtiest air. 

But Joe-Anne didn’t feel that way about it at all. Her atten¬ 
tion had been aroused, and she scented an opportunity to get 
hold of something interesting—out of the ordinary, of course— 
that was what made anything interesting to her. 

“But you can’t know all the palmist said,” she reminded the 
stranger, “because we’ve only mentioned a few things—for you 
to overhear—” 

“She told you that you would be married within the year,” 
he said, “but I tell you that it will not be for at least two years; 
and the man you will marry will have paid attention to this 
other young lady before he proposes to you.” 

“Oh, without doubt,” replied Joe-Anne with a cheerful grin 
that curled her mouth delightfully. “They all do that. But tell 
me, shall I have to do the proposing?” 

“No; you would never do that. He will propose, the marriage 
will take place quite suddenly and surprise all your friends, even 
yourself, and like the heroine in the story books, you will both 
be very happy. You will not be immensely rich, but you will 
have a comfortable home, and three charming children, and you 
will have a very good influence in the neighborhood where you 
live.” 

“Perfectly lovely,” crowed Joe-Anne. “I’m glad I am going 
to be married and have children—and very glad I don’t have to 
propose. Shall I have to do anything special to catch the man ?” 

“Not a thing. Just go your own way. He’ll be in love with 
you months before he realizes it himself—and you’ll never 
guess it until a few days before you are married.” 

Doris Marie listened scornfully. “You actually believe that 
stuff,” she said, almost contemptuously. 

“You don’t believe it, Miss Palmer,” replied the stranger, 
“but you are much more interested than you like to admit.” 


10 


REJUVENATED 


“You called me by name—how did you know—have I ever 
met you before ?” 

“No. I have seen you, however, and I asked your name. You 
have an arresting personality.” He could not have said any¬ 
thing that would have so quickly intrigued Doris Marie—and 
doubtless he knew that. “The palmist did not know how to 
read your hand,” he continued, “because the lines she saw were 
so unusual.” 

“Is she going to marry?” asked Joe-Anne, “and will she do 
the proposing, and will she be the last of the bunch to get 
settled ?” 

“I can see her betrothed to a man old enough to be her 
father,” replied the stranger, deliberately and distinctly, as he 
studied the effect of his statement on Doris Marie. The girl 
prided herself on her ability to—as she would have expressed 
it—take a jolt without the quiver of an eyelash. She did so now. 
“Ooo—eee” squaled Joe-Anne in an ecstacy of delight—“a man 
old enough to be your father, Doris Marie—old enough to be 
your father—” 

“Don’t you believe it,” interrupted Doris Marie with decision ; 
then to the stranger, “why do you pick on me? Why not make 
up something pleasant—like a sugar coated pill.” 

“I am not romancing,” replied the stranger, gravely, “I can 
see you betrothed to a man old enough to be your father—and 
you do it deliberately. There seems to be more than a little 
romance connected with the transaction—” 

“Oh, romance!” interrupted Doris Marie; “that makes it 
more palatable. Is he a prince—or something?” 

“I—hardly think so—yet he seems to supply the romance.” 

“Frightfully rich, then?” 

“I shouldn’t say fabulously rich—but he seems to have 
enough—” 

“I might marry an old man for his money—if he had enough 
—but he’d have to be frightfully rich. Oh, perhaps he is 


REJUVENATED 


11 


noted—has he done anything very wonderful—is all the world 
talking about him?” 

“He merits that sort of notoriety, I think,” replied the 
stranger earnestly, “but I can’t see that he gets it. And I’m 
not sure that you marry him—although I can see you making 
preparations for the wedding.” 

“When will all this happen—” 

“I don’t know, exactly; some time within five years I should 
say.” 

“Have I seen the gentleman?” 

“Ye-es, I think you have—but you’ve never been particularly 
interested in him.” 

“I imagine you’re right about that,” was Doris Marie’s caus¬ 
tic reply. “A man old enough to be my father! He couldn’t be 
interesting.” 

“You think you do not believe a word I say,” replied the 
stranger, and the smile that accompanied these words was won¬ 
derfully beautiful. It made both girls study him more carefully 
than they had during the few minutes in which he had been 
interesting them in themselves and their future. “But I’ll tell 
you what you are going to do about it. You are going to make 
life interesting—and hectic—for more than one young man of 
your acquaintance during the next few months—” 

“She always does that,” interrupted Joe-Anne, with her 
infectious giggle; “probably you guessed it.” 

“No, I didn’t guess it; I know what she will do. She is going 
to engage herself to a young man—and soon—in order to prove 
that I’m quite wrong about the man old enough to be her father. 
In fact, she’ll engage herself to more than one young man.” 

“Why don’t I marry him?” inquired Doris Marie lazily; 
“does he back out?” 

“Sometimes; sometimes there is parental interference—but 
mostly the engagements are broken because you get tired of the 
young man. You are very critical of the young man of the 
period.” 


12 


REJUVENATED 


“Who wouldn’t be?” retorted Doris Marie—and Joe-Anne 
nodded her assent. “Oodles of young men think of marriage 
simply as a road to wealth—” 

“Haven’t you ?” asked the stranger politely. 

“It’s different with a girl. We are not supposed to support 
the family—provide the home—all that sort of thing—but the 
young man of today seems to think he can’t marry unless he 
can find a wife to support him; and he’s not a bit ashamed to 
admit it. I’ve heard young men say that they wouldn’t care how 
old a woman was—or how she looked—if she had money 
enough to keep the home fires burning, and to give them all 
they wanted to spend.” 

“Girls have talked like that for years,” the stranger 
responded, “and boys have overheard them. And girls have 
demanded so much more than boys could afford—I think when 
you consider the question honestly that you’ll admit that girls 
have quite as much against them in this matter of marriage as 
boys.” 

“The majority of girls, perhaps,” said Joe-Anne; “not all 
girls.” 

“No,” replied the stranger; “you are not like that, and you’ll 
find a real man—one who can take care of you, and who will 
wish to be the head of his house, and who will enjoy his posi¬ 
tion as such. You will look up to him—and you’ll be happy.” 

“And Doris Marie will have the first chance at him—I 
remember you intimated that—and she won’t realize what a 
prize she is passing up—oh, boy! I can’t quite believe that.” 

“All the same, I’m right about it.” 

“Who are you?” asked Doris Marie, as if she had just 
thought to inquire. 

“Meaning you’d like my address?” asked the stranger, with 
his wonderful smile. 

“Why not? I may decide to write. I might suggest a ride. 
If I’ve got to get interested in a man old enough to be my 


REJUVENATED 


13 


father, why not you? You have beautiful hands and feet,” she 
added, coolly. “Why not you ?” 

“Why not, indeed!” and the stranger laughed aloud. “It 
never occurred to me that you’d suggest a date with me—or 
that you’d think me old enough to be your father—” 

“Your hair is white. Dad’s isn’t.” 

“My white hair is my only sign of age—and I could have it 
colored. Think of me with dyed hair—or a wig—walking—no, 
I’d go with you to a dance—think of me as dancing—I’m sure 
the man to whom you are to engage yourself will dance with 
you; and about that time he will be hating me beyond telling.” 

“Why? Will you be there? Will he be jealous? Why don’t 
you tell me your name?” 

“I will, but you’ll be none the wiser. My name is Hicks 
Jarou.” 

“Hicks Jarou. It is an odd name. I shall not forget it. 
Where do you live?” 

“Nowhere—and everywhere,” 

“Oh, travelling man!” 

“No; you’ll have to guess again,” and again the man’s laugh 
rang out—a hearty laugh, good to hear. “I’ll tell you; I’m a 
scientist—” 

“Astrologer—something like that?” asked Joe-Anne, eagerly. 

“No, little dabbler in the occult—although I already know 
more about such things than you could ever guess at. I’m a 
biologist—and I have an appointment—and I should say, with¬ 
out looking at my watch—that it is nearly twelve o’clock—” 

Doris Marie glanced at her wrist watch. “It is,” she 
exclaimed; “we must hurry, Joe-Anne. Much obliged for the 
spooky stuff,” she added, as the two girls hurried away. “It is 
all rot, you know, but one does seem to eat it up, just the 
same.” 

The girls smiled and nodded, waved their hands in a com¬ 
radely farewell, and went back along the path that had brought 
them to one of the strangest of meetings—had they only been 


14 


REJUVENA TED 


able to guess it. Hicks Jarou watched them out of sight—the 
little smile still playing about his mouth. He saw them stop 
for a moment, as if to speak to an old man who had shuffled 
along the path toward them—then hastily turned aside as if he 
didn’t care to be observed, and found a seat behind a clump of 
shrubbery. 

“Wasn’t that Mr. Boyd Hunter?” asked Joe-Anne, in a 
hushed tone of voice—as if she had been a little shocked at his 
appearance. 

“Yes,” replied Doris Marie. “He is supposed to be fright¬ 
fully rich, and a miser. Dad is his attorney, and I shiver when 
I go into dad’s office and find him there. There’s something so 
repulsive about him—” 

“Not exactly repulsive,” interrupted Joe-Anne; “but lonely, 
I think. My dad says he is the loneliest man he knows. You 
know his wife ran away and left him in that big house—” 

“Who could blame her?” asked Doris Marie. “Just look at 
him. Could you live with a man who looked like that? I see 
him every Sunday in church; he is one of the deacons—and 
everyone says what a good man he is—but he makes me want 
to swear.” 


The girls passed on, and Hicks Jarou closed the book and 
put it into his pocket. Then he arose, very deliberately and 
followed them—walking softly, and with a peculiar gait—like 
a man who wished to get over the ground quickly without 
making a sound. He turned off the beaten path, after going a 
few steps, and turned up the hill reaching a point above the 
bench which Boyd Hunter seemed to have chosen. From this 
point, Hicks Jarou could watch Boyd Hunter without attract¬ 
ing attention from anyone. 

“January first, 1923,” said Joe-Anne to Doris Marie, as they 
turned into the street that ran along one side of the park. “I’m 



REJUVENATED 


15 


going to write that down—the day we had our fortunes told, 
and heard many and various things.” 

“Do you really believe any of it?” asked Doris Marie, 
curiously. 

“I’m quite sure some of it is true,” replied Joe-Anne, “but 
the trouble is, one never knows which part is true and which 
is make-believe. So I settle matters by believing just what I 
want to believe.” 

“Hicks Jarou! What an odd name. Do you know, Joe-Anne, 
I believe I could fall in love with that man.” 

“So could I—almost,” replied Joe-Anne; “he is absolutely 
the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. Say! Let’s go back, and 
follow him and find out where he’s staying—” 

“Joe-Anne Burnham! Of all the crazy ideas—and espe¬ 
cially from you—why, I do actually believe he hypnotized you.” 

“Perhaps he did,” replied Joe-Anne cheerfully. “When he 
looked into my eyes—which he didn’t do very often, thank 
goodness—but when he did I sure felt as if something were 
happening to me.” 

“Did you feel that? So did I. Joe-Anne, listen! Do you 
suppose we’ve been hypnotized ? Did some man with very dark 
eyes tell us we were going to be married, or didn’t he?” 

“I certainly think I heard him say you were soon to be 
engaged to a man old enough to be your father,” replied 
Joe-Anne, and went off into a peal of laughter against which 
she had been struggling for quite some time. “Oh, Doris 
Marie, let’s find a seat—quick—or I’ll fall down. I’m weak 
with laughter.” 

Doris Marie did not hear her. She was looking back into 
the park. “Look,” she said, “on the hill, just beyond and above 
that clump of shrubs—do you see anyone?” 

“Seems to be a man; why ?” 

“Looks to me like our friend—” 

“Meaning Hicks Jarou?” 

“Yes.” 


16 


REJUVENA TED 

“Couldn’t be. He couldn’t get away over there as soon as 
that. Besides, why should he be standing there—so still—” 

“He is spying on us,” interrupted Joe-Anne, shivering 
delightfully. 

“With his back toward us ?” scoffed Doris Marie. 

“He turned when he saw you looking. If we walk on, very 
slowly, we’ll find him following us—you’ll see. It was what 
you said about marrying him. That excited him. That was 
dangerous, Doris Marie, for he already knew your name.” 

“That whole thing was dangerous, if you ask me. One 
would think we had never been warned against talking with 
strange gentlemen—especially those who hang about the park.” 

“It came about so naturally. Wonder how he spells his 
name? I don’t want to forget it. Next time I meet some occult 
party I’m going to ask if he knows a very pretty man named 
Hicks Jarou—and if what he told two girls in the park is likely 
to come true.” 

The girls walked on slowly, looking back frequently. The 
strange gentleman was not following them, although they 
almost hoped he would. Had they gone back, as Joe-Anne sug¬ 
gested, they would have seen him creeping cautiously nearer 
and nearer to the bent form on the bench below him. And had 
they seen that, they might have put two and two together, a 
year or more later, and then this story would not have been 
written. 



CHAPTER II. 


January first, 1923—a date to be remembered by the reader 
of this story—and not entirely because it happens to be the 
date of our introduction to Doris Marie Palmer and Joe-Anne 
Burnham—two of the most up-to-date flappers of the period 
and both well worth knowing for that reason. January first, 
1923, in Central Park, New York City, where a meeting has 
just taken place between these two girls and one of the most 
learned scientists the world has ever produced, yet who is 
known to comparatively few. It is characteristic of the time 
that these two girls left the scientist without a thought beyond 
themselves and what he had told them of their prospects, and 
whether he was likely to follow them because they had tried 
to flirt with him. They talked of Hicks Jarou very much as 
they would have talked of any other man whom they had 
just met—could they, or could they not, fall in love with him? 

“I believe I could,” Doris Marie had admitted, “although I 
really do not believe in love,” and then had added “did you 
notice his hands and feet—as small and well-shaped as a 
woman’s—absolutely beautiful? I simply adored his hands and 
feet.” 

“I’m thinking about his eyes,” said Joe-Anne—“wonderful, 
soulful, absolutely thrilling.” 

“You said, yourself, that they made you uncomfortable— 
just as they did me—as if we’d been hypnotized.” 

“That’s why I found them so very interesting. I’d like to 
know more about that man. I might worship him, but I’d never 
dare fall in love with him.” 

“Why not? He’s just a man. He was spoofing us, trying to 
get acquainted—prolonging the conversation by getting us 
interested in having our fortune told—trying out a new way 
to flirt.” 


17 


18 


REJUVENATED 


“No, Doris Marie, you’re wrong about that. He really didn’t 
care anything about us—he was just filling in time.” Which 
was much nearer the truth than Joe-Anne realized. 

“You’re determined to weave him into a story,” replied 
Doris Marie with an indulgent smile, and I shall hardly realize 
that I’ve helped live your story, when you tell of our adven¬ 
ture to the bunch. How you will embroider the facts! You’ll 
make them believe that we really have been hypnotized—that 
we only dreamed we talked with a very beautiful man having 
hands and feet much too small for his body, and wonderful 
eyes that sent thrills down the spine whenever he looked at 
us. Trouble with you, Joe-Anne, is that you read too many 
stories about Indian fakirs; you take such stuff too literally.” 

“No, really Doris Marie,” Joe-Anne’s mouth curled into its 
most infectious grin; “you don’t understand. There’s method 
in my madness. I suppose I don’t really believe much more 
than you do—but I like to read and think about something so 
absolutely different from anything we know. It keeps me in¬ 
terested—out of the rut—and in a way it broadens my mind. 
Oh, you may laugh—but I know it does. I prove it every day, 
but the rest of you never guess it.” 

“How do you prove it?” 

“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” 

“You might try me out; no one else has called me so very 
dense.” 

Joe-Anne laughed. “Now you’re huffy,” she said, “and in 
no mood to listen to my vaporings; but I’ll try to make you 
understand. For instance, there you stand—by all odds the 
most beautiful girl in our set—” 

“Nonsense,” interrupted Doris Marie, but she really did not 
consider it nonsense; she knew she was the prettiest girl in her 
set. 


“No, let’s be absolutely honest,” protested Joe-Anne; “that’s 
the only way—if we are to try to understand what I don’t more 
than half understand myself. You are beautiful and popular— 






REJUVENA TED 


19 


a leader—especially a leader in all we modern young people are 
trying to establish as an antidote to mid-Victorianism—and we 
are all glad when you deign to notice us.” 

“For Pete’s sake, Joe-Anne, can your applesauce.” 

“All right—all right, Sweetness; now, for once in your life 
listen quietly while some one else does the talking. We’ll just 
admit all I’ve said about you, and go on with the analysis. 
We’ve dissected you; now there’s me—your humble servant, 
to be a little more grammatical. We’ve been pals for a long 
time. Why? You usually tire of a pal in a few months; why 
haven’t you tired of me?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Doris Marie, thoughtfully, “unless 
it is because you are the most interesting girl I have ever met.” 

“Remember when you first became interested in me?” 

“N:o; do you?” 

“I most certainly do because I deliberately advertised myself 
for that purpose. You see, you had held the limelight for so 
long that I couldn’t seem to get a look-in—and I wanted some 
attention. I know I was far from beautiful—far from wealthy 
—not graceful enough to attract attention, not witty enough 
to get a hearing—at least not without a proper introduction, so 
I said to myself I’ll become Doris Marie’s chum. Then I 
changed the spelling of my name—told everyone it was changed 
and why—and presto! the deed was done. I had advertised 
myself "as being different.” 

“But didn’t you believe any of the stuff you told us about 
the change in spelling being necessary to change your luck?” 

“Sure I did. And didn’t I prove my point? It did change 
my luck. But if I’d never cared to study along occult lines I 
shouldn’t have thought out a way to do it. I am interesting 
because I know something about a study that the rest of you 
are too indolent to take up. And because I am interesting I 
hold my own in our set although I really have nothing else to 
boast about. Today, if you were to decide that you were tired 


20 


REJUVENATED 


of me, I could still hold my own—have a following quite as 
strong as yours.” 

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” replied Doris Marie, 
wholeheartedly—“and I shall never be ready to give you up. 
You are too stimulating.” 


January first, 1923—a date to be remembered by the reader 
of this story because of the remarkable experiences of Bbyd 
Hunter, which will furnish data for scientific facts, in the near 
future—facts and experiments destined to banish old age or 
rather to raise it from the dread period of decrepitude which 
is at present its domain. This story of Boyd Hunter will have 
accomplished much if it starts the reader on a study of the 
work of the scientists of today, and helps by its approval to 
prove, rather than to kill their demonstrable facts simply be¬ 
cause some other scientist does not care to help advertise a 
rival. To banish old age is the goal of more than one scientist 
today. There must be a piling up of birthdays, and that is 
desirable; and when the many birthdays stand for wisdom and 
understanding as well as physical activity instead of approach¬ 
ing senility, the scientist will have justified his long years of 
labor and the halo of adoration will be bestowed upon him by 
grateful humanity. Let’s help on the good work by carefully 
studying the part Boyd Hunter played in it. 

It was too warm for the usual New Year festivities—but 
Boyd Hunter was not troubled about the weather. He had 
something far more serious to worry about. This was his 
birthday. He was sixty-nine years old, and he looked seventy- 
five; yet he had confidently expected to conduct his very 
flourishing publishing business for at least twenty years longer. 
That business dwelt in the inmost region of his heart; it had 
been his God for many years—but, like most successful busi¬ 
ness men he did not realize that. He was a deacon in the 
church and he believed himself to be a good Christian, and he 


REJUVEN A TED 


21 


sometimes thanked God for his success, while patting his own 
back as the sole author of it. 

Boyd Hunter had considered himself in the prime of life— 
until a fortnight ago, when a curious symptom had challenged 
his attention and sent him to a doctor. As a result he had 
“gone through the clinic”—a procedure that is becoming quite 
the fashion. He had been given the final verdict on this, his 
birthday, and he had fled, instinctively to a secluded spot in 
Central Park where he hoped to be alone. It was hemmed 
about by a flourishing group of pine shrubs, still heavily clothed 
in their rich green verdure, and was a spot dear to lovers be¬ 
cause it was so secluded and had a bench only large enough to 
accommodate two. Boyd Hunter had been there before, when he 
had some important business matter to consider, and he had 
discovered that when he occupied that bench, no one ever tried 
to share it with him. 

Never in all his life did Boyd Hunter crave solitude as he 
did at this moment. He had received a terrible—a most un¬ 
expected shock, and his thin body still trembled from it 
although he was making a desperate attempt to bear up stoic¬ 
ally. And in a way he was succeeding. For a brief moment he 
had forgotten his great trouble in the contemplation of a pic¬ 
ture that floated before him. Had he seen two girls—had they 
looked at him as if they meant to speak—had he deliberately 
ignored them—had they tossed their heads and smiled con¬ 
temptuously—had they noticed that he was suffering—trying 
to get away by himself—and would they tell about it? At that 
moment it seemed to him that he must get himself well in hand 
before anyone knew—what everyone must know very soon. 
To display emotion had always seemed to him rather cheap. 
A man should always bear himself stoically and with dignity— 
and he was confident he could do that, once he had gained con¬ 
trol of himself. He must look the thing squarely in the face— 
why worry about those two flappers! He called them chickens, 
and that brought to his mind a ludicrous recollection of a 


22 


REJUVENATED 


chicken he had seen, years ago, taken up in a whirlwind and 
carried away in a series of spirals, too much astonished to make 
a sound. How he had laughed at the time. Now he felt that 
there was a resemblance between his plight and that of the 
chicken, and although he managed a smile, there was no humor 
in the situation. He had smiled, but he realized at once that 
the smile was ghastly. It must not be repeated. No one must 
see him trying to grin like a damned death’s head. Had he 
grinned like a death’s head when he met them? Those con¬ 
founded flappers! It was seeing them that reminded him of the 
chicken—but hold on! He wasn’t thinking logically. Let them 
say he was looking white-livered if they wanted to. What did 
it matter, anyhow? This wasn’t the way to get himself in 
hand. This wasn’t the way to realize that he must die—die 
horribly—and very soon—that he had certain duties that must 
be performed—before he died—died horribly— 

Quite without reason, he saw himself as the leading actor in 
a funeral procession—without any mourners. His attorney was 
there, of course—and with him was Doris Marie, the attorney’s 
beautiful daughter—and Doris Marie was laughing. Well, she 
would do that. She always made fun of her elders, no matter 
what they did. She made a habit of calling people mid-Vic¬ 
torian, as if that were a crime—no, too silly to be classed with 
crimes. Doris Marie laughed and scoffed, and was charming in 
spite of her rudeness to those who merited her deference. He 
was glad she didn’t belong to him—but why think of that just 
now? This was no time to be trying to despise Doris Marie. 
He had come here to think things out alone—get ready to face 
the dread future with the dignity he desired— 

And then Boyd Hunter’s precious solitude was shattered. 
A man had deliberately taken a seat beside him, and he was 
penned in between that man and the impenetrable shrubbery. 
It was quite evident that the intruder meant to keep him where 
he was. To get away, he must either step over the legs of his 
unwelcome seatmate, or ask him to get up and let him pass. 


REJUVEN A TED 


23 


The thought of either course loomed like a disagreeable task,— 
but—he must be alone—he must—he must— 

Boyd Hunter got to his feet abruptly—angrily. He looked 
as if he’d like to pulverize the intruder. Words were not neces¬ 
sary ; anyone could have seen that he wished to pass, but the 
stranger did not move. His legs barred the way out. He waved 
a beautiful hand, beautifully kept, an authoritative hand—the 
hand of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed. He 
smiled, and at the same time shot a penetrating glance into 
Boyd’s angry eyes—a glance that held like a magnet—that 
could not be evaded—that was backed by purpose—and after a 
momentary struggle, Boyd sat down again. He couldn’t have 
said why he did it, except that he lacked strength to do any¬ 
thing else. Such impotence added to his anger. 

“Don’t hurry,” the stranger said softly and pleasantly, yet 
with an undertone of command. “I have something to say to 
you that you’ll find interesting.” 

“I have no wish to hear anything you can say,” replied 
Hunter, gruffly. “If you are determined to keep this seat, be 
good enough to let me pass.” 

“The clinic gave you little hope,” remarked the stranger, 
quite casually. “I’m here to tell you that I can do better by you. 
You’d better listen, don’t you think?” 

“What do you mean? You weren’t one of that damned out¬ 
fit; at least, I do not remember seeing you.” Boyd Hunter 
turned to study the stranger. “Mean to say you were there?” 

“I was invited in at one stage of the game,” replied the 
stranger, “but you were not present. I had the pleasure of 
listening to the reading of various reports—and of hearing the 
verdict.” 

“Then you know—” 

“Yes; they said cancer of the liver.” 

“And you do not agree with them ?” 

“On the contrary. Without doubt you do have cancer of the 
liver.” 


24 


REJUVENATED 


“Then why do you keep me here? Must you emphasize the 
the good news ?” 

“You are told that you have only a little while to live. I do 
not think you need to pass out so soon as they believe you will; 
but whether you do or not is for you to decide/’ 

“For me to decide? You must think I have a lot to say 
about it! For me to decide! Do you think you are joking?” 

“No; I am in earnest—very much in earnest. You may 
believe me when I say that it rests with you, as to whether or 
not you die of cancer, because if you care to come with me to 
my laboratory in France I can cure that cancer.” 

“Nonsense. I don’t believe it. Everyone knows that cancer 
of the liver can’t be cured. What sort of fakir are you? What 
kind of game do you think you can work on me? Battening on 
my helplessness—faugh!” 

His tone was contemptuous to the last degree—his manner 
unforgivably rude—but the stranger was quite unmoved— 
calm, gentlemanly, sympathetic, with just a hint of an amused 
twinkle in his dark understanding eyes. 

“Evidently you have not recognized me,” he said, pleasantly. 
“It may be that you’ve never heard of me, although I can hardly 
believe that. My name is Hicks Jarou.” 

“Hicks Jarou. You don’t mean it! The Hicks Jarou?” 

“Oh, so you have heard of me ?” 

“Hicks Jarou! You don’t say! Yes, I’ve heard of you. 
Aren’t you the man who cured that fellow who was shot 
through the heart?” 

“I am the man. There is but one Hicks Jarou.” 

“Say, that man was shot through the heart, wasn’t he—or 
was that just a newspaper story?” 

“He was shot through the heart—buried—resurrected—and 
he is alive and well today.” 

Boyd Hunter was silent for a full minute—no more. Then, 
as if having reached a sudden decision he asked “Why must 
I go to France? Why can’t you do the job in this city?” 


REJUVENATED 


25 


“My laboratory is in France, and I’m leaving on the steamer 
that pulls out tomorrow evening. I can get a booking for you, 
if you like.” 

“Couldn’t possibly leave so soon. Couldn’t possibly get ready. 
But I might appear at your laboratory a little later.” 

“You wouldn’t. Your friends would urge against it, so 
would what you call your commonsense. Better come with 
me. If you stay here you’ll soon be unable to leave your room. 
Yours is a case that should be taken in hand at once, to be 
successful. I can begin my treatments while we’re going across. 
You understand that, personally, it makes no difference to me 
what you do. I simply offer you the opportunity to get well.” 

“But my business. Can’t you see that I must have time to 
close that out?” 

“Why close it out? Can’t you believe that you are coming 
back to it? I, Hicks Jarou, tell you so.” 

“God! I wish I could be sure of that.” 

“Take a chance. You have everything to gain and nothing 
to lose. Leave your business in the hands of your employees 
It won’t suffer very greatly. Besides, if you don’t do as I sug¬ 
gest you’ll soon be leaving it, never to return. You have cancer 
of the liver, man; don’t forget that! You have had it for quite 
some time.” 

“And you think you can cure me?” 

“I Jknow I can.” 

“Just give me an idea as to how you expect to do it.” 

“I use vibratory methods—with an additional kink of my 
own devising that you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Did you tell those doctors?” 

“No.” 

“Wouldn’t they understand?” 

“They wouldn’t listen.” 

“I should think the whole world would know about it—if 
you can do what you claim.” 


26 


REJUVENATED 


“The world isn’t ready to listen. When I’m through with you, 
you can go before the doctors who have just discharged you as 
incurable, and they will look you over and decide that they 
must have made a mistake in their diagnosis, because you 
couldn’t possibly have been cured of cancer of the liver. You 
may try to convince them—for the sake of suffering humanity 
—but they will only tell you that you’ve been hoaxed. I know. 
It is done every day.” 

“As you say, I have nothing to lose—” Boyd Hunter was 
thinking hard. 

“Nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Shall I reserve a 
stateroom for you?” 

“Yes,” replied Boyd Hunter, explosively. “I’ll go. I always 
said I’d go to France some day—when I had time.” Then he 
added ruefully, “but I didn’t think it would be this way. How¬ 
ever, get me the stateroom, please. I’m in your hands now.” 

“You’ll not regret it. Tell your employees you’ll be away six 
or eight months. Better arrange to take five thousand dollars, 
and have more sent if you need it.” 


Hunter leaned against the ship’s rail, watching the receding 
city,—his beloved city—the only place in the world where he 
cared to live; he was wondering if he’d ever see it again, and 
trying to believe that he should. He was feeling very much 
alone—friendless and forlorn, and sick. He could not put 
entire faith in this mission that was taking him abroad. At this 
moment he was fearing that it was more than likely that he 
would never come back to this—the only country in the world, 
in his opinion, worth a second thought. And he was leaving it. 
If he had to die, he’d prefer to die at home. But he wanted to 
live, and there was a chance—but he could scarcely see the 
New York outline now, and he was very homesick. He was a 
fool to put any faith in Hicks Jarou. He would die of cancer— 
die among strangers—be buried in a foreign land. And who 


l 


REJUVENATED 


27 


would care? Who would care? He reminded himself that he 
was the only passenger on that great floating palace who had 
not shaken the hand of at least one friend who had come to 
wish him bon voyage, yet he realized that it was not altogether 
because he had no friends. There were a few business asso¬ 
ciates—a few fellow church members—his doctor, perhaps—his 
lawyer— surely there would have been some one who would 
have cared enough to come had he given them opportunity, had 
he not decided so unexpectedly to make the trip; but under¬ 
neath this thought was the hateful suspicion that everyone he 
knew would really be glad he had relieved them of any such 
tiresome social duty—, that there was no one in the world who 
really cared where he went or when or why. Indeed, he was 
confident that his employees had shown a real pleasure in the 
knowledge that they were to run the business without him for 
a time. He was quite sure that his doctor was thinking what a 
relief it was to know that a strange physician would have the 
duty of trying to make his last days as painless as possible; and 
he knew quite well that his lawyer would gain more by admin¬ 
istering his estate, than by managing his affairs while he was 
abroad for a few months, and would not regret the sad event 
that threw the extra emolument at his feet. Boyd Hunter was 
in a very pessimistic mood. And then he thought again of the 
two girls he had met in the park at the moment when he was 
seeking solitude, that no one might witness his despair. 

Doris Marie Palmer, and Joe-Anne Burnham. He knew 
them very well. They were always together. Painted flappers. 
Acted as if the earth turned on its axis because they had so 
ordered. He had never liked those two girls, and now he was 
feeling actually bitter towards them, for their voices carried 
well and he had overheard all they had said about him. 
“Frightfully rich—and a miser—” were there many who 
thought that of him? and she shivers when she meets me— 
there’s something so repulsive about me—and I make her feel 
like swearing—and who could blame my wife for leaving me— 


28 


REJUVENA TED 


Oh, my God! when I missed her so. Do others think of me like 
that? I don’t believe it. That girl deserves—I’d like to give her 
what she deserves. If I get well—and I hope I shall—just to 
get even—good Lord, forgive me! Forgive me, Lord! I must 
be crazy! To be troubled by what that fool girl said—I must 
be crazy.” 

It troubled him so much to realize that two laughing girls 
had seen him at a time when he was too frightened to know 
how he appeared—and that he might, as a consequence have 
became an object of ridicule. 

“I feel exceedingly well satisfied with you, my friend,” said 
a pleasant voice at his side. Hicks Jarou had unpacked his 
steamer trunk and put his stateroom in order for the night—a 
task he always attended to for himself—and now he had come 
on deck. Hunter stared at him incredulously—with angry 
disapproval. Satisfied with him indeed. Exceedingly well sat¬ 
isfied ! Palaver! What was the man trying to do to him ? Why 
should he take the trouble to lie? Was he giving him a free 
Christian Science treatment? He knew himself to be in a mood 
that no honest man, trying to help him, could possibly approve. 
He hated himself for his pessimism, and yet he knew he had no 
wish to be coaxed into shifting over into the tiniest show of 
optimism. He actually preferred, at the moment, to feel worse 
rather than better. He courted a deeper, darker, sadder mood 
if only he could manage to achieve it—and he wanted to suffer 
in silence. He hated Hicks Jarou, just then, and took no pains 
to hide his dislike. 

“Well satisfied,” he repeated with a sneer; “exceedingly well 
satisfied! If you do, I’d advise you to keep it to yourself.” 

“Why?” asked Hicks Jarou. 

“It would give your patient greater confidence in you,” 
replied Hunter, rudely. “I’m not in a mood to satisfy any 
honest practitioner.” 

“Think of the old saw about the darkest hour just before 
daylight,” advised Hicks Jarou, “and you’ll understand me 


REJUVENATED 


29 


better. It is much easier to help a man who has lost all hope 
than one who feels that, after all, there may not be much the 
trouble with him. You see only the unpromising present; I see 
what a fine future you have before you. When a few months 
later, you stand at the rail saying goodby to France—” 

“I don’t believe that will happen. I shall be buried in 
France.” 

“On the contrary. Today, your doctor has been telling a few 
of your nearest friends that you will never return— that you 
have cancer of the liver and can never get well, and they are 
saying, ‘poor fellow’ and wondering who will benefit from your 
death. I smile when I think how they will look when you 
return.” 

In spite of himself Hunter’s face lost a little of its look of 
woe. The fellow seemed so darned sure of himself. He made 
one see what he wanted him to see, and without making him 
feel like a fool for changing his mind so quickly. All of a 
sudden, he saw himself returning to New York—a well man. 
He saw himself walking into his beloved office—seated at his 
old desk—discovering errors that had been made during his 
absence—Lord, what a delightful vision! And what a shock it 
would be to those who were feeling that they could manage his 
business as well as he could. For a moment, he hoped he should 
find the business all at sixes and sevens. What joy it would be 
to jump in and set everything to rights again! He could do it— 
for a few years he ought to be able to do his best work—if he 
got well. But—of course—a man at his age— 

“Age does tell,” said the man at his side, almost as if he had 
been reading his thoughts, “but as a rule it tells lies—just 
because we have allowed ourselves to subscribe to the doctrine 
that age must sooner or later get out of the running. One may 
feel as young as ever—as vigorous as ever, wiser than ever 
before—but if one looks old the world is going to count the 
days until he is ready for the grave and has made way for a 
successor.” 


30 


REJUVENATED 


“Well, then!” exclaimed Hunter, as if Jarou were in some 
way to blame for it all. “I am old. I know it. I look older than 
I am. Anyone can see that I’m beginning to wobble at the 
joints. Why have I allowed you to persuade me to go to all this 
trouble just to prolong my life a few years more?” 

“You don’t want to die. I never met a man who had a 
greater love of life. You realize that you have missed so much 
that you should have enjoyed—that you might have enjoyed 
had you only understood how to live. You must have been 
rather handsome, once. You had dreams, once, and you haven’t 
realized many of them. You know that you could do much 
better if only you could try again.” 

“Don’t most men think like that when they realize that it is 
too late—that they can’t go back and try again?” 

“Perhaps. I am not interested in the men who cannot be 
persuaded that they might go back and try again. I am inter¬ 
ested in a man like you, who, I believe, will make the effort to 
get back and pick up the pleasures he has missed.” 

“Get back,” growled Hunter, again suspicious and on guard— 
“what do you mean by get back?” 

“I mean,” replied Hicks Jarou, slowly and impressively, “that 
with your consent and cooperation, I can send you back home 
not only cured of cancer, but as a man of not more than thirty 
years of age in looks, manner and physique.” 

“Rejuvenation?” queried Hunter a little less skeptically. 
“I’ve read of that, but I never thought I’d really be interested.” 

“You’ve read of the work of a few experimenters,” replied 
Jarou, “some of whom are doing very well indeed; but I am 
all of a hundred years in advance of the best of them. I am so 
far in advance of them that they can’t see me. When I take 
forty years from a man’s age there is no camouflage about it. 
He is forty years younger in looks and ability and endurance— 
in every way except in memory, commonsense, and the knowl¬ 
edge born of experience.” 


REJUVENATED 


31 


“God!” gasped Hunter, “what it would mean to a man to 
have the knowledge of seventy and the physical attributes of 
thirty!” 

“And when one knows that it is possible, how can one refuse 
to grasp the opportunity?” 

“But if all that is feasible, why don’t you yourself take 
advantage of your knowledge?” 

“My dear man, I am more than fifty years older than I look. 
I have chosen my present apparent age because a scientist could 
not be much younger than I appear and gain even the grudging 
attention that the callow scientists of the period grant me 
today. I could be a man of twenty if I chose.” 

“How long would it take—this rejuvenation—supposing 1 
were to decide to let you work on me?” 

“I can do it while I am curing that cancer. You would not 
be losing any time. And there couldn’t be a better time than 
while you are so far away from all your friends—at my private 
sanitarium. My advice is to let your friends know all about the 
cancer. When you see them again they will think you look so 
much better because you have been cured so miraculously. You 
would not care to tell them about taking the treatments for 
rejuvenation ?” 

“Not if I could help it,” replied Hunter promptly. “I’d rather 
they thought the cure of the cancer did it.” 

“I had an idea you’d feel like that about it. Most of my 
patients do. That is another reason why I am finding it so 
difficult to get proper recognition.” 

“Of course I’d be willing to recommend you,” hastily sup¬ 
plied Hunter, “insofar as I could without making myself an 
object of ridicule. I’d tell how you cured me of cancer 
anyhow.” 

“I understand. By the way, how much time will you require 
in which to make your decision?” 

“I don’t know; why?” 


32 


REJUVENATED 


“If you were to begin while on this voyage you’d save nearly 
a week.” 

“How could I begin, here?” 

“I require my patients to sleep most of the time for a week 
in order to get perfectly rested. Sleep, and eat very little. I’d 
give you a sleeping draught to get you started.” 

“Well, I don’t know but that would be as good a way as any 
to get across. I hate the motion of this boat. I can’t say that 
I’m looking forward to the trip with very great joy. In fact, 
I’m afraid I’m not going to prove a good sailor.” 

“So? Well, don’t let that worry you. I’ll not let you get 
seasick. Come to your stateroom and I’ll fix you up so that 
you’ll think you are sleeping in your mother’s arms.” 

Boyd Hunter obeyed, and knew nothing more about that trip 
across the water. He slept all the way across. He was too 
sleepy to realize when he was helped off the steamer or when 
he arrived at Hicks Jarou’s sanitarium, or exactly what was 
being done to him. He didn’t care. His only wish was to find 
a comfortable bed where he could sleep without being dis¬ 
turbed. He had forgotten friends, business, cancers, and New 
York City. He hadn’t a worry, or a pain, or any care as to his 
future, where he was going, what was being done to him. His 
only realization was that he was so sleepy he’d like to stretch 
out comfortably and drop off into slumber and be let alone. 


CHAPTER III. 


Eight months had passed since Boyd Hunter had so suddenly 
left his native city for a trip to France. Soon after he left, it 
became quite generally known among his acquaintances that 
his doctors had told him he had not long to live, and why; and 
it was frequently said, as the weeks passed, that the poor old 
man was holding out surprisingly. No one expected to see him 
again, alive. He wrote occasionally to acknowledge the receipt 
of letters that had been forwarded to him, and sometimes he 
offered a suggestion, or issued a command, to his employees. 
When he did this it was quite in his usual style—vigorous, con¬ 
cise, exactly to the point, imperative in tone. Emphatically not 
the work of a very sick man, and therefore surprising—but 
after all wasn't that like him? He cared only for business and 
would naturally cling to that when his mind failed in every 
other respect. That was the comment most frequently heard. 
It was noticed, however, and mentioned, that his letters had 
not once given the name of the place where he was staying. 
They were postmarked from a little village in the mountains of 
France—a village so unimportant that it could not be found on 
the maps. He had once intimated that his letters home were so 
infrequent, because he was living at a place that was many 
miles from a post office, and got his mail at long intervals. It 
was generally believed that he must be at some health resort or 
sanitarium, and that he was too ill to take interest in anything 
except himself. 


It was an odd place—this work shop of Hicks Jarou—bear¬ 
ing little resemblance, so far as a stranger could see, either to 
sanitarium, laboratory or workshop—yet some of the most 
astounding experiments in this astounding century had been 

33 


34 


REJUVEN A TED 


carried to a successful conclusion under that roof. The house 
looked like the home of an artist wealthy enough to gratify his 
whims, yet it spoke less of money than it did of comfort. The 
room where Boyd spent his time was as comfortable and home¬ 
like as the most exacting man could desire. There were serv¬ 
ants, but Boyd never knew how many. All he knew was that 
everything ran as smoothly as the most perfect machine and 
without much supervision as far as could be discerned. He did 
not know, at that time, that his host had designed many con¬ 
trivances that tended to make his housekeeping run so smoothly, 
and that, in due time this very curious scientist would be known 
as the savior of domestic life. 

Boyd Hunter was the only patient in this exemplary sani¬ 
tarium. He learned afterward that there was never but one 
patient admitted at a time, and that this one was more a subject 
of scientific experimentation than he was a patient. Hicks 
Jarou never troubled himself about anyone who was simply an 
invalid. In the case of Boyd Hunter he had found a subject to 
his liking, and Boyd was given every care and all the attention 
anyone could desire. He was yet to realize that he was under 
the care of a scientist so far in advance of all other scientists 
of his time that they caught only a glimpse of his seemingly 
winged flight through the mysteries not yet penetrated by other 
students, and consequently failed to get a hundredth part of the 
favorable recognition that should have been accorded him. One 
can’t praise what one knows nothing about. Jarou understood 
that, and seldom blamed the world for its lack of appreciation. 

There were not half a dozen men in the world who had been 
inside the laboratory of Hicks Jarou, which was built at some 
distance from the house where Boyd Hunter spent his time, 
and which, from the outside, looked like a well appointed barn 
on an up-to-date farm, except for the wonderful vines that 
covered it, and the flowering shrubs that concealed it from view. 
The world would have been astonished could it have under¬ 
stood a tenth part of what went on in that laboratory, as it was 


REJUVENATED 


35 


astonished when the synthetic man was completed and intro¬ 
duced to an uncomprehending world, as described in a volume 
bearing the name of this scientist. He was the first to make the 
human heart beat for years outside the body—and to restore to 
health and vigor a man who had been shot through the heart 
and buried. 

For eight months Boyd Hunter had occupied that perfectly 
appointed room, and during all that time no one but the at¬ 
tendants had come to see him. But he had been too somnolent 
to care. He remembered that he had come there to be cured of 
cancer of the liver, which had registered an appalling number 
of ohms—many more than had ever been counted in the worst 
case ever cured. But Hicks Jarou had never seemed to be in 
any doubt as to his final recovery, and after every careful 
examination of his patient, he would smilingly announce how 
many ohms had been crossed off the register since the first 
examination. It was all very satisfactory, because he had been 
able to comprehend that his improvement was steady even 
though so gradual as to seem slow. Meanwhile, he felt well. He 
had no fears as to his future condition. He believed he was 
being cured, when he gave any thought at all to his condition, 
which was seldom. He was convinced that he was given some 
sort of sleeping potion with his food, but if so, whatever it was 
never gave him any feeling of discomfort—and he did not 
worry about a possible bad habit; besides he was glad to spend 
so much of his time in sleep. It might, otherwise, have hung 
heavy on his hands. He had a vague recollection of a soothing 
voice in endless repetition of some rhythmical phrase, and 
believed that Hicks Jarou was trying to hypnotize him as he 
dozed; but he was too somnolent to have objected, even though 
it had occurred to him in a vague sort of way that some time in 
his past he had made a solemn vow never to allow himself to 
come under another's influence in any way. 

Occasionally a basket of letters would be brought to him, and 
then would come a hazy recollection of a voice—a most monot- 


36 


REJUVENA TED 


onous voice—saying over and over, “tomorrow you will give 
your usual careful attention to your business correspondence.” 
The man who brought the letters would take dictation, if he 
desired such assistance, and the business would be despatched 
with such celerity and ease and efficiency that he would return 
to bed feeling greatly pleased with himself, and quite sure that 
the very complete rest he was taking was the best thing he could 
have decided upon. “I’m not getting a bit rusty,” he would 
assure himself, and then he’d declare that when he returned to 
God’s country he’d put his shoulder to the wheel—straighten 
his affairs p. d. q.—and make business hum in a way that would 
startle his old associates, who were doubtless expecting very 
soon to send flowers to his funeral. 

Eight months of supreme tranquility. It was almost like 
eight months of living death—would have seemed so to Boyd 
Hunter under any other conditions. But when a man has been 
told that he has cancer of the liver in an advanced stage, and 
that he can live but a few months at most, and that he must 
expect to suffer horribly except when under the influence of 
increasing doses of opiates—it will be readily understood how 
very satisfactory such an entirely different program must be. 

He was actually amazed when, in reply to a question he had 
not thought to ask before, he was told how long he had been 
living in that suite of attractive rooms. Eight months. Eight 
months, and this was the first time he had cared enough about 
it to inquire how long he had been there. Eight months. It 
didn’t seem like eight weeks. It hardly seemed more than eight 
days. Time had simply been of no consequence. He yawned 
and stretched luxuriously, and suddenly recollected that for a 
long time he had been obliged to be careful about stretching in 
the morning, because of a painful tendency to cramp in the 
legs. Now he stretched again just to see if he could bring on 
the cramp. He could not. Gee, how good it felt to stretch like 
that! How well he felt. He couldn’t remember when he had felt 
so absolutely fit. He stretched again—like a young athlete, and 


REJUVENATED 


37 


twisted his body like a contortionist, until he was tingling from 
head to toe. He felt like getting up and bathing and dressing 
without waiting for assistance. Why not? In the name of all 
that was good, why not? Suddenly he wondered why he had 
accepted such assistance like a baby—why he had been cajoled 
into bathing and exercising—why he had been so willing to lie 
in that bed and sleep, like a bear in mid winter. Well, he was 
wide awake now. He decided to get up at once, hunt up his 
clothes, dress, and go out of doors. Come to think of it, had 
he been out of those rooms for one moment since he had 
entered them? If he had, he couldn’t recall it; and yet he 
seemed to have a vague recollection of walking, walking, walk¬ 
ing over rough roads, under strange trees, beside a calm blue 
lake, beneath a wonderfully beautiful sky—always with two at¬ 
tendants, one on either side, who almost carried him along, 
compelling him to keep on walking when he wanted to lie down 
under a tree and go to sleep. Well, if that had actually hap¬ 
pened, it should never happen again. He was determined as to 
that. 

He threw his legs out of bed, as nimbly and unthinkingly as 
he had done when a boy, and suddenly took notice of the extra¬ 
ordinary firmness of his flesh. He slipped off his pajamas. 
What had become of the obese lines, the flabby muscles, the 
liver spotted skin, the stiffened joints which had caused him 
discomfort for at least ten years? How he had hated such 
evidences of advancing age. But now! Now his body was that 
of a young man in the pink of condition. It was a beautiful 
body—supple, well muscled and strong. How well he felt! 
How full of life! How absolutely fit! 

He ran his fingers through his hair, and with a boyish jerk 
of the head threw a recalcitrant lock off his forehead. A mop 
of hair—Good Lord! Hair! And he had been bald eight 
months ago. He gave his forelock a vigorous pull. That hurt 
all right. It proved that the hair was attached to his scalp. It 
belonged. He looked around the room for a mirror. He must 


38 


REJUVENATED 


see how he looked with hair. Glory be! What would his busi¬ 
ness associates say to that! Hair! Where was the confounded 
mirror? It was then that he had asked himself why in reason 
a mirror had been omitted from a room that held every other 
convenience a man could wish for. 

“Of course the boys will guy me,” he reflected, again run¬ 
ning his fingers through his abundant locks. “They’ll accuse me 
of going to a beauty parlor, all right, all right; but I can put 
up with that—I’ve got the hair! Lord, how I wish I could see 
it. I’m mighty glad Hicks Jarou did this for me, while he was 
curing that cancer—but I do hope it is a good, decent gray— 
curly gray hair—that ought to be becoming.” 

He pulled out a hair for examiation—then another from 
the opposite side of his head—a third and fourth; he was 
obliged to admit that his hair was not the beautiful gray that 
he had considered so suitable for a vigorous man of seventy 
years. His hair was red. It must be every bit as red as it had 
been in the days of his youth when the boys at school had 
called him Woodpecker. A luxuriant crop of red hair. No one 
would ever believe it belonged to him. He’d have to convince 
every man he knew that he was not wearing a wig. He’d be 
guyed incessantly. How he’d hate that—and what could he do 
to avoid it? It would be worse than being bald. Nearly all his 
business associates were bald—had been bald so many years, 
just as he had, that no one ever mentioned it. But his new crop 
of red hair would be mentioned. It would make him con¬ 
spicuous. No doubt about that! 

The door to his bedroom was pushed open, and his attendant 
appeared. “Hello” he exclaimed as if surprised, “you up? 
Well! Well! Looks as if I were out of a job. Dressing? 
You’ll want the suit of clothes you wore when you arrived?” 

“Please,” replied Hunter, briskly. “Bring all my stuff, will 
you? I’m wondering if I brought a decent cravat. And say,” 
as the attendant turned to leave the room, “what about a 
mirror? This room doesn’t seem to contain one.” 


REJUVENATED 


39 


“Want to see what you look like?” asked the attendant, 
smiling. 

“Got to see how to tie my cravat,” replied Hunter, evasively. 
He did not want the attendant to guess how curious he was to 
see how he looked with his new crop of hair. 

The attendant soon returned, and with him came Hicks 
Jarou. 

“Good morning,” said Jarou, pleasantly; “I rather thought 
you might be wanting to get about, this morning. Feeling 
all right?” 

“Never felt better,” replied Hunter, heartily. “No need 
to ask if that old cancer has been conquered.” 

“You are absolutely cured,” said Jarou. “It was a most sat¬ 
isfactory proposition from beginning to end. You are free 
from cancer, and there is no more reason why you should 
fear a recurrence than there would be if you had never had 
one. In fact, I consider you immune. I believe you are less 
liable to have another than you would have been had you 
not taken this treatment.” 

“I don’t know how to express my gratitude,” replied Hun¬ 
ter. “Yours will be the easiest bill I ever paid, be sure of 
that; but of course I want you to understand that I realize 
you are entitled to more than money in a case like this. I’d 
like to do something for you—something that would really 
express my gratitude.” 

“That would not be impossible,” replied Hicks Jarou, se¬ 
riously ; “in fact, I’d very much like to have you mention my 
work whenever you feel that you can help another by so doing. 
It seems to me that would be the most fitting way to express 
your gratitude. I am more interested in the sufferers you can 
direct to me, than I am in any other form of advertising you 
might give me—you’ll understand that, I’m sure. At the same 
time, I must confess that I’d like you to appear before those 
doctors who said you could not recover, and ask them for 


40 


REJUVENATED 


another examination. Fd like you to write me what they 
think of you now.” 

“Fll do that very thing,” exclaimed Hunter with conviction. 
“Fd like to know, myself, what they will have to say when they 
see me. They can’t go back on their records, can they ? And 
I won’t mention you until after they’ve finished wondering 
how I managed to get well. Then Fll tell them, as well as 
I can, how you treat cancer.” 

“Thank you,” replied Jarou, quietly. “If you do that Fll 
have the pleasure of curing others who have been doomed to 
die. And now about that mirror. You have one, but it is in 
your dressing room—and until now you have not seemed 
to be interested in dressing rooms.” 

Jarou unlocked a door as he spoke, and Hunter stepped into 
a beautifully appointed dressing room, suddenly halting before 
a full-length mirror. He glanced in, then turned his head to 
see who was following him. Who was this red-headed young 
fellow—was it possible—there was no one present except Hicks 
Jarou—and himself? He glanced at the mirror again, and this 
time he raised his hand to brush back his crop of shining, red, 
curly hair. The reflection convinced him. He was—he actu¬ 
ally was — looking at himself—not Boyd Hunter the man of a 
few months ago—the man he knew—but the boy he dimly re¬ 
membered, the young man, Boyd. 

“Had you forgotten?” asked Hicks Jarou, softly. “You 
seem surprised. Had you forgotten that you commissioned me 
to take forty years from your appearance? Behold yourself 
at the age of thirty! It looks like a miracle, doesn’t it?” 

“It does, indeed,” faltered poor Boyd Hunter. “It—it’s hor¬ 
ribly uncanny.” 

“Don’t you like it?” asked Jarou, sharply. 

“I—I’m not sure. I guess I’m flabbergasted. I don’t know 
myself. I’m like an apparition—done in color! It upsets me. 
I feel sick. I—Fll have to get used to seeing myself like this,” 


REJUVENATED 


41 


and he turned away from the mirror, trying to smile, and 
achieving only a sickly grin. 

“You’re surely not hard to look at,” said Jarou, smiling; 
“why turn away from that mirror as if you hated the sight of 
yourself? Why not stand right there and get used to your¬ 
self ? Man, you are trembling like a leaf! What’s the matter 
with you? Wishing you could go back to the doddering old 
chap of eight months ago?” 

“Could I—you know—go back—if I wanted to?” There 
was hope in the eager young voice. 

“You don’t mean to tell me you’d want to go back?” 

“No; no, I’m not saying just that. But—this change is too 
tremendous. Couldn’t I just go back a little way—I’d like to 
be—perhaps forty-five or fifty years in appearance.” 

“You should have said that in the beginning. You did not.” 

“No; I suppose I didn’t think you could do anything—at 
least anything like this. I agreed, I presume, without thinking 
how I’d feel, if you actually did manage it.” 

“Well, how do you feel? You told me just now that you 
never felt better? Didn’t you mean what you said?” 

“Yes; I meant that. I feel as young as I—eh—as I look. I 
feel like a very young man—actually—and yet I know I am 
nearly seventy years old. I think I can recall my past life as 
clearly as if I’d never done anything except live in the past. 
You have changed my body—but my mind remains the same.” 

“Surely you are not complaining about that! Didn’t you tell 
me you’d like to be young again, retaining all the knowledge 
you had gained from experience?” 

“Yes, I remember saying something like that. One fre¬ 
quently says things without expecting to be taken literally—I 
was joking—” 

“Oh, no, my friend, you weren’t joking; you paid me to do 
what I told you I could do.” 

“I didn’t believe you could do it.” 

“But we agreed upon a price. You paid me—” 


42 


REJU VENA TED 


“I expected you’d make a great improvement—at least I 
hoped you could. I was willing to take chances. But if I had 
known you would take me literally—” 

“I do not say one thing and think another,” replied Jarou, 
stiffly, “and especially in business matters. I undertook to do 
a certain thing for a certain sum of money. I have done as I 
agreed. If you are not satisfied, I am sorry. I regret to say 
that I can not undo what I have done.” 

“I must go way from here looking like this? Don’t tell me 
that! Heavens, man, don’t tell me there will never be any 
change in my appearance!” 

“Only such changes as time brings. You will grow older about 
as you did when you began to age. I should say that you be¬ 
came an old man in appearance rather earlier in life than was 
necessary. You do not need to do that this time. You’ll have 
life easier, because you can begin where you were about 
to leave off. You have your business, your knowledge, your 
experience—everything to help you live your life as life should 
be lived. Really, I do not see what more you could ask. Hon¬ 
estly, now, don’t you think you are acting rather foolishly ?” 

“Yes,” admitted Hunter, miserably; “I suppose I am. But 
I’m terribly upset. I’ll probably feel differently when I’ve be¬ 
come used to the change.” 

“I’m sure you will,” replied Jarou. “Now hurry up and get 
dressed, and come into the dining room for your breakfast. 
You’ll enjoy that better than trying to eat it here.” 

“This—eh—this change knocks me over—it—it actually 
makes me rather ill. Somehow I don’t feel hungry. Let’s 
skip breakfast. I’ll have luncheon with you, instead—if you 
don’t mind.” 

“I understand,” replied Jarou, sympathetically. “You want 
to be alone. You must have time to get acquainted with your¬ 
self. Well, that’s all right; only, old chap, you mustn’t empha¬ 
size the pessimism. Remember, that was one of your failings, 
when you were an old man. Don’t take it up again. It 


REJUVENATED 


43 


wouldn’t be in keeping with that glorious red head of yours— 
and the royal way in which you carry yourself. Well, au re- 
voir. I’ll see you at luncheon—unless you care to come into 
the garden before that, as I hope you will decide to do.” 

Hicks Jarou was gone, and Hunter was alone. He stood 
before the mirror trying to get acquainted with the trembling 
young god who looked back at him with frightened eyes—eyes 
that were experienced, disillusioned, rather hard and not 
young. An old mind in a young body. It was horrible. He 
didn’t feel human. What was he going to do with himself? 
How could be go back home looking like this ? How could he 
face his old friends? Who would believe he was the Boyd 
Hunter they had known? They’d brand him an imposter. 
Could he establish his identity? Even though Hicks Jarou 
should go with him and corroborate his story, who would ac¬ 
cept it? They’d call Jarou an imposter also. Suppose they 
did accept his story—would he want his old acquaintances to 
see him now? He’d be jeered at by every small boy in town. 
He had been a deacon in the church for many years; could he 
go back to that now ? He looked more like a foot ball player 
than a deacon. And if he could not go back to his old life, 
where then could he go? What could he do? 

What could he do ? It was the hardest question Boyd Hun¬ 
ter had ever tried to answer. It was terrifying. It became in¬ 
creasingly difficult the longer he faced it. He could not decide 
anything affirmatively while his seventy-year-old brain was 
protesting against that thatch of red hair. He must give him¬ 
self time to get used to his youthful appearance. Meanwhile, 
he reached one conclusion that he believed to be absolute; He 
could never again, never, never, appear among his old associ¬ 
ates. He was convinced that he could never make them be¬ 
lieve that he was himself—and even if he could, his whole 
soul rebelled at the prospect of living among them imprisoned 
in a body that he knew they would declare made him look like 
a fool. 


44 


REJUVENATED 


When Hunter appeared for luncheon, he had decided to say 
good-bye to Hicks Jarou. He would take his departure that very 
afternoon. Nothing should induce him to change that plan. 
He wanted to get away from everyone who had ever seen 
him as he appeared eight months ago. He was determined to 
begin life anew, and among strangers. 

“Going home?” asked Hicks Jarou, when Hunter had an¬ 
nounced his speedy departure. 

“Not at present. Perhaps never again. I don’t know. I 
must become used to my appearance before I can decide what 
to do—and I feel that it will be easier to make my plans for 
the future while surrounded by entire strangers.” 

“I hope you will finally decide to go back home,” replied 
Jarou. “If you do not, how will you account to your friends 
for your continued absence?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t decide that, yet. I can’t decide any¬ 
thing.” 

“Why not remain here and let me help you?” 

“Let you help me—good Lord, no! I’ve let you do too much 
as it is.” 

“Gratitude; gratitude,” mused Jarou; “of what stuff is it 
made!” 

“Don’t jump to the conclusion that I’m going back on my 
promise,” hastily put in Hunter; “I mean to do the right 
thing—but just at present I can’t think how what I want to do 
is to be done. I was never so puzzled in my life. Perhaps, 
when I’m alone, the situation will become clearer—but I don’t 
really believe it will. I’m a man without a country, without 
personality — without individuality. I feel that I have no 
past, no future, no friends—I’m nothing except a protesting 
old man in a strong young body that is clamoring for exer¬ 
cise.” 

“You are taking this change too seriously. You’ll pull your¬ 
self together in time.” 


REJUVENATED 


45 


“I don’t believe it. I’m utterly and absolutely flabbergasted.” 

“Flabbergasted?” queried Jarou, with an amused smile; 
“A new word to me—but expressive.” 

“It fits,” replied Boyd, morosely. 

“I can see how it might suit your present mood.” 

“It does.” 

“Some men are fortunate—some contented—some hope¬ 
ful—” he smiled sardonically, and continued— “and one flab¬ 
bergasted. Well, my flabbergasted friend, I will bid you good- 
by—but only for a little while—” 

“Only for a little while,” repeated Boyd with undisguised 
dismay. He was feeling that he never again would see Hicks 
Jarou, if he could help it. 

“A little while—as time goes. I’m confident that we shall 
meet again. I shall be interested, you know, in that advertising 
you are going to give my cancer cure.” 

“I'll write you about that—later—when I’ve thought out the 
best way. Understand, I can’t say when or how—” 

“Oh, I’m not worrying about that. As you are known to be 
a man of your word, I’m sure you will not disappoint me.” 

Jarou gave him a genial smile, and without a hand shake or 
other parting salutation, disappeared into his den, where a 
mysterious chemical compound was about to prove that what 
he declared to be his unseen occult teachers had not disap¬ 
pointed him. 


Boyd Hunter packed his grips and left on the next train. 
He did not know where he was going. He had bought a 
ticket for a town of which he had never heard before, simply 
because he had happened to have just the sum required to pay 
for it in his vest pocket, and need not set his grips down in 
order to make change. He could get another ticket to some 
other place when he had reached the end of the trip paid for 


46 


KEJUVENATED 


by this one. He didn’t care where he went so long as it 
seemed to be towards the jumping-off place. 

His sojourn at the Jarou sanitarium had not taken more 
than one-half of the funds he had brought with him—and a 
part of the price he had paid by check. Afterward, he regret¬ 
ted making out that check—but now he congratulated himself 
that he had money enough with him to pay his expenses until 
he could decide what he’d better do with himself. 

“The loneliest man in the world,” he whispered to himself. 
“Didn’t those girls say something like that about me? What 
would they say of me now?” Then he repeated what he had 
said of himself to Hicks Jarou: “I’m a man without a country, 
without personality, without individuality. I feel that I have 
no past, no future, no friends—.” At this point, he covered 
his face with a worn newspaper that he had brought with him, 
and wept shamelessly. The loneliest man in all the world. 

Later, when he idly glanced over the paper, he found an ac¬ 
count of one of the gayest parties of the season, given by Mr. 
and Mrs. Stephen Palmer, to announce the engagement of 
Doris Marie to young Sidney Holt. “A fine young fellow,” 
he thought, “the Palmers are undoubtedly pleased—but, how 
about the Holts? They’ve never approved of jazzy girls, and 
Sidney was to have studied for the ministry. I hope he 
breaks that engagement. He’s too good to chase around in 
the wake of that flapper.” 

Hicks Jarou had also read that item—and a smile of amuse¬ 
ment played around his mouth, as he packed the paper in 
Hunter’s suit case. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Before Boyd Hunter had left the home of Hicks Jarou an 
idea had come to him that promised to help him out of his 
present difficulty; but he did not want Jarou to know that. 
He believed that if he remained in the house of the great sci¬ 
entist even for another night this idea of his would be guessed. 
He felt quite sure that the man must have considerable skill 
as a mind reader—and until he had fully decided what to do, 
he wished to be entirely alone where he could perfect his plans 
without interruption or outside influence. In the new home 
he had found he would be as isolated from the world as any 
sane man could wish, but he was not satisfied. His ticket had 
brought him to the little country village of La Fleur on the 
French side of the Pyrenees. It contained a post office. That 
was all that interested him at the time. So far as he could 
find out he was the first American that had ever visited the 
place, and there had never been an English visitor. The town 
had a visiting priest once a month, but no lawyer or doctor. 
One had to take the train and ride twenty miles if one needed 
either. Good. The more he learned of La Fleur the better 
pleased he was. No one he knew would ever come there. He 
could hardly be more out of the world and live. He realized 
that, and yet he wished to go farther. He would come to La 
Flour for his mail and to post letters, but he would not live 
there. He must have an even more profound solitude. He 
purchased a decrepit bicycle—the best the town afforded—the 
only one as a matter of fact—and set out in search of a home 
where he could be as completely isolated as he desired, while 
his plans were being perfected. 

Five miles from La Fleur he found an old couple who owned 
a tiny farm in a sheltered valley high up in the mountains. 
They had a spare room. It had been built on to their tiny 

47 


48 


REJUVENATED 


house by their very wonderful son who had paid for the farm, 
and then had died in the late war. They were surprised, over¬ 
whelmed, and just a little suspicious when they learned the 
amount this handsome young man was willing to pay for the 
use of that room, and for his board and washing for the next 
four months. It would pay all their expenses and leave 
enough to keep them in comfort for the remainder of the year. 
What could that beautiful young man have done to make him 
so anxious to hide himself away? They wondered, but de¬ 
cided that, after all, it was none of their business. So long as 
he paid his bills and gave them so little trouble, why should 
they not do their best to keep his presence a secret from the 
world, as he so much desired. 

Boyd soon found a quiet nook under a big tree on one 
corner of the farm, where he could think without interruption. 
It was sheltered from the wind—from the hot sun—from the 
world. He built himself a comfortable seat, and a rude table 
to be used as a desk. Here he could write his letters—arrange 
everything—and be alone, while he worked out his plans for 
the future. He must make those plans very carefully. His 
was fated to be very much a mystery story—but there must 
be no tiny thread leading to discovery, as there always was in 
the many mystery stories he had read. Detective stories had 
been his one source of entertainment during the years 
when he had worked too hard to care for more vigorous pleas¬ 
ures. He had read them as a source of amusement, but now 
he believed that they were to help him prepare for the difficult 
years ahead of him. His first finished items were as follows: 
Boyd Hunter was born January first, 1854. He was 
married to Mamie Jones on January first, 1893, when he 
was thirty-nine years old. His wife left him the first of 
the following June. 

That much was history that could be easily verified by any 
inquiring mind. It may have been forgotten by his old ac¬ 
quaintances. He had never talked about his domestic trou- 


REJUVENATED 


49 


bles—never mentioned his wife after she left him—never 
sought a divorce—never had wished to marry again, never 
had tried to win the attention of any other girl. It was said 
that his wife’s behavior had made him a woman hater. His 
reticence was considered admirable. He was sure that there 
were many of his business associates who did not know he 
had ever been married; but he knew that when the matter 
was brought to their attention—as it must be—there were oth¬ 
ers who could supply interesting details. They must all be told 
now, that he had been married and deserted—God! how he 
hated such publicity. In all the years of his loneliness it had 
been nobody’s business. Now all his little world would feel 
privileged to pry into the saddest moments of his life. Boyd 
Hunter writhed inwardly, but there was no help for it. 
Through no fault of his own he had become notorious—or 
would be if his plan for the future were not successful. He 
must bear it as patiently as he could. His youthful appear¬ 
ance had made many disagreeable things necessary, and he 
hoped his neighbors’ curiosity wouldn’t live long after it had 
once been assuaged. He added another paragraph to the writ¬ 
ten outline of the new life he was planning. 

“Mary left in June. We could say she was in her third 
month of pregnancy. The child must not come too soon 
after her departure. Her condition must not have ad¬ 
vanced far enough to be evident, or I, as a prospective 
father, would be criticised for not bringing her back home. 
And so I must not have guessed her condition. We’ll say 
that the son was born on my birthday—that will make it 
easy for me to remember. That would make his birthday 
January first, 1894, which would make him thirty years 
old, by the time I get back home. I look about thirty years 
old, now. Yes, the plan will work. I can appear as my 
own son. It is the only way out. The most they could 
say would be that the son was extraordinarily like me— 
but that is often true of fathers and sons.” 

Now he was ready to write his letter. He would write to 


50 


REJUVENATED 


Stephen Palmer, his attorney. That would, of course, be the 
natural thing to do, and there was the added advantage of send¬ 
ing his letter to a man who talked his business over with his 
wife, and who had a wife who couldn’t possibly keep a juicy 
bit of news to herself, even though it came to her as a business 
secret. Let Mrs. Palmer read his letter, and it would be all 
over town in less than twenty-four hours—this interesting news 
of Boyd Hunter’s son who was coming to New York City to 
take charge of his father’s business, and who bore his father’s 
name. 

How should he word that letter? Let him get the facts in 
mind. Now! He had left New York because he had been told 
that he had an incurable disease and could not live more than 
six months at best. He had left because he had hoped to be 
cured—but none of his friends had known about that. Should 
he tell them? He’d rather not mention Hicks Jarou at all— 
but he had promised him faithfully to tell how he had been 
cured of cancer of the liver. Of course, as matters now stood, 
he could not keep that promise—could not explain his cure— 
because he had decided that his friends must believe that he 
had died of cancer of the liver. No. Notwithstanding his 
promise, he could not claim to be cured, but his son could say 
that his father’s life had been prolonged quite miraculously, 
and that all pain had been removed. That was surely sufficient 
commendation to enable him to tell Jarou, should the necessi¬ 
ty arise, that he had tried to keep his promise; and at the same 
time it was not flattering enough to make anyone else seek the 
Jarou sanitarium. He most decidedly did not want any of 
his friends to visit that sanitarium. Perhaps it would be wiser 
not to mention Jarou’s name at all. After long and earnest 
thought he decided that he’d just write Palmer that he had 
gone to a sanitarium for treatment—had been relieved of pain, 
his life prolonged, but that he had grown steadily weaker, and 
now realized that he must die. Realizing that, he had sent for 
his son, of whose existence he had only lately become aware, 


REJ UVENA TED 


51 


and he was now coaching him to take his place in the business 
world. That coaching idea was excellent. It would account 
for the facility the son was bound to show when he took up 
the work in his printing and publishing establishment. 

There was another point to be considered. The death of 
the boy’s mother should be casually alluded to. Of course he 
would not be expected to go to Njbw York, as his father’s heir, 
and leave his mother in France. A nice boy, such as he wished 
to be considered, couldn’t possibly do that. He’d better say 
that his mother passed away a year or two before his father 
found him. Boyd Hunter had no reason to think that his wife 
was still living. On the contrary he believed she must be dead. 
It had been so long since he had heard from her or about her. 
He’d made inquiries, too. He wished he could be certain that 
she was dead, but he really did not anticipate any trouble from 
her, even if she were not. So many years had passed since 
she had left New York, and no one who had known her there 
had ever heard from her in all that time. It would be quite safe 
for her son to say, if the question came up, that his mother 
died two or three years ago. Better make it definite. Three 
years would do nicely. 

Now his own death and burial must be carefully planned. 
He must die before his son left for New York; it would be 
considered inhuman for his son to leave him among strangers, 
and-he was determined that this son, who was himself, should 
not be criticized more than was absolutely necessary. He 
wished him to have a happy time. He believed he deserved 
it. All the dreams of his youth might now come to pass—if 
only he could arrange these preliminaries so carefully that no 
troublesome questions would ever arise. So he must be dead 
and buried before purchasing a ticket to New York. And there 
must be a real corpse and a real grave, and a headstone and a 
priest; then, if any long-nosed spy came to glean information 
that would add to his son’s discomfort, he would find what, 
perhaps, he had not expected to find at all. Boyd Hunter 


52 


REJUVENATED 


grinned happily as he entertained this thought. He decided 
that it couldn’t be very difficult to find an old man with one 
foot in the grave who would suit his purpose. He could look 
about for such a man during the long weeks that must elapse 
before he could get matters at home in readiness for his son’s 
appearance. And he’d be good to the old man—make his last 
days comfortable. Surely there could be nothing wrong about 
that. He would arrange it so nicely that the son could speak 
quite casually of his father’s burial place. There wasn’t one 
chance in a million that anyone would ever want to come away 
up there to find it—but it would be there to find in case any 
one should so decide. 

What he now registered in his mind as “the facts in the 
case,” were gathered together and in order. It remained only 
to write the letter to Stephen Palmer. What should be its 
tone? Coldly businesslike, or as one friend to another? Per¬ 
haps he’d better make it friendly—somewhat appealing—since 
he must now write of a matter that no one had dared mention in 
his presence since those dark days when the world had dis¬ 
covered that his wife had left him never to return. He could 
not give his son a businesslike introduction and let it go at 
that. He must make a friend for his son, and to do that he 
must rake up the ashes of his past. Of course he must make it 
very clear that he had not known, when his wife ran away, that 
there was to be a child. All his friends must believe that, had 
he guessed her condition, he would have made more strenuous 
efforts to bring her back. He must say frankly that his only 
thought at the time had been that if she did not want to live 
with him—if she wanted to run away— let her go. That, while 
he’d prefer to have her remain, he could live without her. His 
pride dictated that position. He’d rather live alone than to 
live with a wife who had no love for him, and so he would 
take no steps to bring her back. 

That was really the truth, and being fact, did much to hold 
his story together. He reviewed it all, now, with a view to 


REJUVENATED 


53 


giving this explanation a solid background of as many actual 
facts as could be brought together. While he did not expect to 
be obliged to mention this domestic trouble, yet certain ques¬ 
tions might arise that would make it necessary. There might 
be some who had known more about it than he suspected, and 
who would not hesitate to ask questions of the son that they 
would not have asked the father. He must be prepared for 
surprises. This story of his must be surprise proof. These 
were the facts! Now to review the past, once more, in search 
of further facts. 

His wife had become restless and dissatisfied. Nothing he 
could do seemed to please her. This was all history. There 
were times when she appeared to hate and despise him. That 
attitude had angered him. There had been recriminations and 
quarrels—never particularly bitter but decidedly unpleasant, 
especially to a tired business man who was working very hard 
to get himself established. At first, it had been rather fun—de¬ 
cidedly exhilarating—to make up and begin all over again, as 
happy together as a pair of turtle doves. But he had gradually 
tired of that. He had wanted to come home to a quiet nest, a 
smiling wife—and he had sworn like a trooper on one occasion 
when he found her in tears. Should he tell that? At the 
time, he had felt that he was justified in such an exhibition of 
temper—any tired man would have felt exactly as he did—and 
she had really deserved a lesson. She had carried on her hys¬ 
terical mannerisms quite long enough. Once he had threat¬ 
ened to shake her — and advanced as if to carry out his 
threat—but he had restrained himself. He couldn't actually 
punish a woman, no matter how richly she deserved it. He re¬ 
called how like a spoiled child she had seemed to him, and how 
sincere he was in his belief that a thorough spanking would 
work a very desirable change in her. Spoiled children were 
often most charming between their exhibitions of temper. Her 
fault was not exactly temper—it was hysteria. Hysteria. 
Yes, that was it—but could he say so? Now that he was to de- 


54 


REJUVENA TED 


clare that she had been pregnant, would that not account for 
her hysteria and leave all the blame for him to shoulder? 

It had never been easy for Boyd Hunter to accept criticism. 
His reactions had always been so violent and pugnacious that 
his acquaintances had soon learned that if they had any criti¬ 
cism to make they’d better make it behind his back. But now 
he would be dead. They’d hardly say very much against a dead 
man, but what they did say would quite likely be what they 
had thought—and he had heard that detestable Doris Marie 
tell the almost equally detestable Joe-Anne that his wife could 
not be blamed for deserting him. No, he would not admit that 
he’d ever found fault with his wife. His son must not be 
obliged to face too much criticism of his father. He must be 
in a position to treat girls like Doris Marie with extreme 
scorn and bitter contempt. Well, he would be dead, and even 
though they did think he should have been more solicitous of 
his wife—well, there was nothing criminal about any of it. 
He could make any reasonable person understand that he had 
been the one who was punished, because for years he had been 
kept in ignorance of the fact that he had a son. There was the 
idea! Any father would understand that he had been more 
than sufficiently punished—and he had furnished an excellent 
reason for never having told any of his acquaintances that 
he had a son. He decided that he would never have discovered 
that fact at all had he not determined to make a visit to the 
grave of his wife, on this, his first trip to France. Of course, 
he would visit his wife’s grave—and there he met his son! 
How beautifully the story was shaping itself ! What a wonder¬ 
ful idea! He’d work out that meeting with his son very, 
very carefully, always bearing in mind that it would be the 
son who would describe the meeting. 

Now he could go back home without running into endless 
joshing about his rejuvenation. He could go back, take up 
the work that was dearer to him than anything else that life 
could offer, go about among the business acquaintances that 


REJUVENA TED 


-5 


had stood to him in place of friends, live in the environment 
that suited him. He could also join in the entertainments of 
the younger set—have some of the youthful pleasures that 
had been denied him. He had been too poor to play when 
young; he had been obliged to give himself exclusively to the 
task of making a living. But now he was rich; rich and young 
and strong—yes—and very good to look at. He wouldn’t be 
at all surprised if the girls would like his appearance—perhaps 
be quite crazy about him—but did he desire that? Did he? 
Yes, in a way; although he believed that he should never 
marry again. After all, he was seventy years old—or would 
be when he got back to New York. He was really too old to 
marry. He didn’t want to be bothered with a wife—but it 
would make life interesting if he were to become popular with 
girls. He never had been, and he had often wished to be— 
and there was one girl, in particular, who needed to discover 
that the world was not made especially for her pleasure, her 
comfort and her convenience, 

He drew a deep breath, smiled happily, sprang into the air 
to grasp the limb of a tree, and swung back and forth like a 
boy. Life was good. He was going to be very happy, and he 
deserved happiness. How young he felt! How full of life! 
And soon he would be back home in li’l ol’ N’York. 


CHAPTER V. 


Mr. Palmer wore an air of suppressed excitement when he 
appeared at the dinner table in his pleasant dining room—a 
fact that was quickly noted by his better half. Such a disturb¬ 
ance of his usual calm and somewhat detached and lofty man¬ 
ner was unusual, and not particularly attractive. It seemed to 
cheapen him, but she did not tell him so. Life with him had 
taught her too much for that. Mr. Palmer had been educated 
at West Point and he carried himself accordingly, even though 
an attack of flu with a subsequent attack of heart trouble had 
prevented his taking up the life of a soldier as he had planned. 
But he had become a very successful lawyer, and as a result 
was far wealthier than any of his fellow graduates, whose plans 
had not been forestalled. 

Mr. Palmer seldom permitted himself to appear really 
excited about anything. He classed most exhibitions of excite¬ 
ment among the vulgar displays of the uneducated and un¬ 
trained. A man who tried to represent the best that West 
Point could turn out always had himself under perfect control. 
He really believed that, and so on this particular evening he 
was unsuccessfully but valiantly trying to suppress the most 
determined wave of excitement that had ever mounted to his 
carefully cultivated brain. But Stephen Palmer could not de¬ 
ceive his wife. She had lived with him too long not to know 
at once that he had news to impart which was of no ordinary 
nature. She had also lived with him too long not to know that 
nothing was to be gained by trying to hurry him. The more 
carefully she kept from him her observance of his air of sup¬ 
pressed excitement, the more quickly would she hear what it 
was all about. And so she ignored him, quite politely, and 
chatted with her daughter, Doris Marie, about the party they 
were to give on New Year’s day. 

56 


REJUVENA TED 


57 


“New Year’s day,” repeated Mr. Palmer, vaguely, and as 
if trying hard to show interest in something that did not inter¬ 
est him at all, “why—eh—that’s the first of January, isn’t it?” 

“Naturally,” began Doris Marie, pertly, but her mother 
silenced her with a quick frown, a mysterious smile, and an 
almost imperceptible shake of the head. Doris understood the 
warning. This was the time for her to keep still; something 
of interest—news of importance—might be expected, if no 
silly mistakes were made, and she would be included in the 
consequent discussion. Doris Marie did not obey her mother, 
as a rule, but she was enough like her to try to avoid doing 
anything that might deprive her of a bit of interesting news. 
She quickly and silently agreed with her mother that her 
father’s vague and silly remark was like a sign pointing to some 
thing that he considered important. He was never either 
vague or silly unless something had happened to astonish him, 
and no small matter could ever do that. 

Doris and her mother continued their conversation about 
the party. Who must be invited, who might be left out. They 
couldn’t possibly include everyone they knew or everyone 
whose invitations they had accepted. There were persons whose 
invitations they did not care much about; such persons need not 
be invited, etc., etc. 

“What about Sidney Holt?” asked Mr. Palmer. “Shall you 
invite him?” 

“Of course,” replied Doris Marie, somewhat sharply. 

“Think he’ll come?” 

“Why not? Broken engagements are not considered, these 
days.” 

“Broken engagements ?” repeated Mr. Palmer, catching at 
those two words in a conversation that did not interest him, 
and immediately becoming suspicious. “Doris Marie, have you 
broken off with Sidney Holt?” he spoke sternly. It was evi¬ 
dent that the very thought angered him. 


58 


REJUVEN A TED 


“It was broken off by mutual consent,” replied Doris Marie 
calmly. “Don’t get apoplectic, Dad; it occurs frequently.” 

“In this instance I have no doubt that you are to blame.” 

“Why the implied criticism of your only daughter?” inquired 
Doris Marie, coolly and with unconcealed patience. “Couldn’t 
Sidney be as disappointed in me as I am in him ?” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied Mr. Palmer with heavy sarcasm. 

“All right; you’d hardly want me to marry a man who 
didn’t approve of me.” 

“I want you to be the kind of girl of whom a boy like Sid¬ 
ney Holt would naturally approve.” 

“You know so very little about Sidney Holt,” murmured 
Doris Marie, her exasperating air of patience still apparent. 
“The engagement was broken because he told me we couldn’t 
be married until you and his father had set him up in business. 
He thought one of you should also buy us a home, and the 
other should furnish it.” 

“Of course he was joking,” faltered Mr. Palmer. 

“Of course he was not,” retorted Doris Marie. “Most of 
the boys believe they should be helped, or that the wife shall 
earn her own living—and it’s all right if they can put it 
across. But I’m not going to marry a boy like that.” 

“I thought Sidney Holt such a fine young fellow,” lamented 
Mr. Palmer. 

“Sid’s all right,” replied Doris Marie, “I like him no end to 
pal about with—but I’m not going to marry him. By the 
way, Mother, if we invite Sid to the party we must ask Myrtle 
Browning, too. Sid seems to think her old man will be willing 
to set him up in business—just to have him in the family.” 

“I’m tired of the same old crowd,” exclaimed Doris Marie a 
few moments later, as she and her mother went on with their 
plans for the New Years party. “They’re getting on my 
nerves—all but Joe-Anne. She’s always interesting. Now if 
she were only a boy—or if there were a boy like her—but there 
isn’t. And we’ve got to fling that party. It’s our turn to enter- 


REJUVENATED 


59 


tain. If only we could have just one person—at our party—a 
stranger—preferably a handsome young man—whom we had 
never before seen,—wouldn’t that be great!” 

“Of course you know such a thing would be impossible,” 
replied her practical mother. “How could we invite anyone 
who had not been properly introduced, and how could he have 
been introduced if we’d never seen him ?” 

“That might be managed,” interrupted Mr. Palmer, quite 
unexpectedly. It came like lightning from a clear sky, it was 
so unexpected. 

“A stranger—never introduced—” squealed Doris Marie, 
“Oh Dad, do you really mean it ?” 

“I said it might be managed, didn’t I?” replied Mr. Palmer, 
with ponderous playfulness. 

“Nonsense,” replied his wife. “In stories, perhaps, but 
never in real life. There must be proper introductions.” 

“Give me a handsome young man to play with, Daddy dear,” 
interrupted Doris Marie, “a real man, young and unknown and 
interesting,” she continued gaily, “and I’ll love you forever, and 
give you a dozen of my sweetest kisses.” 

“One would do,” replied Mr. Palmer, absentmindedly, and 
then suddenly checking himself, he added lamely, “that is, one 
at a time.” 

“Poor Daddy! he shan’t be kissed at all if it hurts like that. 
But tell me, dear, could you, or couldn’t you produce a young 
man who would measure up to my specifications? Haven’t 
you a hunch or two up your sleeve? What did you mean 
when you said it might be managed?” 

“A young man is expected to arrive early in the morning 
of January first—the boat gets in about six. I am to meet 
him.” 

“And bring him here, you splendiferous daddy?” 

“I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not sure he would agree to 
come.” 


60 


REJUVENATED 


“Why don’t you tell us whom you are expecting?” asked 
Mrs. Palmer with a little frown of annoyance. 

“No, no;” expostulated Doris Marie. “Don’t tell just yet. 
It is more mysterious, this way. This is stacks of fun! Go 
on, Daddy; what is he like ?” 

“I don’t know; I’ve never seen him.” 

“Ge-e-e!” squealed Doris Marie, in an ecstacy of delight. 
“Splendiferous! He’s never seen him, Mother! Go on, Daddy; 
how old is he?” 

“About thirty, I believe.” 

“Thirty ? That isn’t so very young.” 

“I’m told that he was born in 1894.” 

“And I was born in 1906. Some difference. But that really 
doesn’t matter. I’ve always preferred men older than myself; 
they are far more interesting. Go on, Daddy; is he handsome ?” 

“I don’t know. If he looks like his father, as I last saw him, 
I should say decidedly not; but his father as a young man was 
not bad looking, in fact he was considered very good look¬ 
ing.” 

“It is some comfort to hear that you know his father,” 
interjected Mrs. Palmer. 

“Knew,” corrected Mr. Palmer. “His father is dead.” 

“Good,” exclaimed Doris Marie, unfeelingly; “that makes 
the son much more desirable. And his mother?” 

“Died some years ago, I understand.” 

“Better and better. Brothers and sisters?” 

“He was an only child.” 

“Daddy, you are a perfect angel. You are as romantic as the 
devil. I love you to distraction. Go on, dear. Spin out the 
romance just as long as you can before getting down to the 
harrowing details.” 

“What makes you think there may be harrowing details?” 

“Oh, I know enough of life to realize that we’ve got to have 
’em, sooner or later. But go on, tell us some more.” 

“Guess it’s time to give you a little of the prose, so listen: 


REJUVENATED 


61 


The young man's father and mother separated before he was 
born. I have done his father’s legal business for many years, 
and until three months ago I did not know he had a son.” 

“Ah, ha! Mr. Stephen Palmer,” crowed Mrs. Palmer; “now 
I know! You are talking of Boyd Hunter.” 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Palmer, “of Boyd Hunter, and of his son, 
Boyd Hunter, Jr. The son arrives the first of January to step 
into his father’s shoes.” 

“And you’ve known about him all this time,” accused Doris 
Marie, “and never told us. I don’t think that was a bit nice, 
Daddy; you might have known how interested I’d be.” She 
pouted deliciously and her father looked at her with tender 
affection. She was his spoiled baby—but she was also a very 
charming daughter—when she chose to be so considered. 

“I wish, Doris Marie, that you would not talk of young men 
quite so freely,” the mother interrupted, fretfully, “so—so in¬ 
formally—so audaciously—so unreservedly—I don’t know how 
to describe it, but it sounds—almost brazen.” 

“It isn’t brazen,” replied her daughter; “it is only being 
natural. Of course I’m interested in young men; all girls are; 
then why shouldn’t we admit it? I think of every new young 
man I meet as a possible husband—but so far it hasn’t taken 
me long to see that none of them had the qualifications I 
demand. However, I never get discouraged. It is fun to go on 
trying. And now I’m interested right up to the hilt. I’m glad 
I’ve ditched Sidney, for something tells me that I’m going to 
have a fine time with Mr. Boyd Hunter, Jr. I think I’ll go 
with you to meet him.” 

“I think you’ll do nothing of the sort,” interrupted Mr. Pal¬ 
mer, hastily, and with conviction. 

“Why not ? The poor young man would love to be welcomed. 
He’d love to be welcomed by me. He must be feeling horribly 
lonely—and since you are going to bring him right to the 
house—” 


62 


REJUVENATED 


“Who said I was going to bring him to the house?” in¬ 
quired Mr. Palmer explosively, or as nearly explosively as he 
ever allowed himself to appear. His daughter certainly did have 
a way of throwing him off guard when he least expected it. 

“I did,” replied Doris Marie, calmly. “I want him here 
where I can study him before any one else has seen him. 
Understand, Mamma? He is to be our house guest.” 

“But, dear, don’t you think—” 

“Mother Palmer, I’ve told you what I think. I want Mr. 
Boyd, here, as our house guest. If you won’t arrange it, I can 
call on him at his hotel, I suppose.” 

“Would you do a thing like that?” demanded Mr. Palmer. 

“Why not, Daddy? I’m interested. I’ve simply got to see 
what he’s like. I’d get Sidney Holt to go with me.” 

“Sidney Holt! And your engagement just broken?” 

“Oh, that’s all right. Sid would do anything for me. You 
see, he wants me to help him win Myrtle.” 

“And this is the type of young person we’ve given this 
weary world,” groaned Mr. Palmer. 

“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea to bring the young man 
home with you?” asked Mrs. Palmer, suddenly persuasive. 
“To be obliged to go to some hotel on a holiday—it would be 
lonely—a stranger, you know—under your care, too, in a way 1 
And then, if he were already here it would simplify matters 
so far as an invitation was concerned—and if he were still in 
mourning it wouldn’t be like going to a party, you see—because 
he’d be right at the house—like one of the family. And as you 
were his father’s legal adviser—and knew his mother and all 
that—and will likely become his legal adviser—why, dear, of 
course it is up to you to make him comfortable. It really is, 
isn’t it ? Why, seems to me that the only thing you can do is to 
bring him here.” 

Thus did the doting mother play up to the adored daughter, 
and although some instinct warned Mr. Palmer that it wouldn’t 
be at all wise to bring the young man home, quite as if he 


REJUVENATED 


63 


were already a relative, and he really didn’t want him in the 
house where he might have to dance attendance and help to 
entertain him, yet he knew he’d be governed by the wishes of 
the majority. It had happened before. Many times. And he 
was seldom one of the majority. 

That evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were alone, the 
wife learned all the details of the Hunter affair. Up to now, 
Mr. Palmer had kept the matter to himself, because Hunter 
had suggested secrecy until the time arrived when it could no 
longer hurt him to be talked over—and Palmer had respected 
his wishes even more zealously than Hunter had expected or 
desired. But Mrs. Palmer, was, after all, really getting the 
information in so dramatic a manner that she could never by 
any possibility keep it to herself, and so it happened that Boyd 
Hunter’s plan would be advertised as thoroughly as he could 
wish. The only trouble was that it was to be acted upon in a 
manner he had not foreseen and could not desire. If he had 
known that he was to be made a member of the Palmer family 
over New Year, for instance—but luckily he never guessed 
that. 

“All Hunter’s friends knew that he had cancer of the liver,” 
Mr. Palmer was saying, “and that he couldn’t possibly get 
well. But he seemed to think he had found a man who could 
cure him—some one who has a sanitarium in France—and 
that is why he went abroad so suddenly.” 

“And he didn’t get any help at all?” 

“He wrote that he was helped—he believed his life was pro¬ 
longed, and he declared he was relieved of all pain—which, of 
course paid him for going. Then, later, he wrote me that he 
could not get well—that it was only a question of weeks—and 
that he wanted me to get things fixed up legally so that his son 
could step into his shoes without any difficulty. He seemed to 
have everything thought out most carefully. He wanted me to 
fix up any papers he had to sign and have them forwarded as 


64 


REJUVENATED 


soon as possible—all of which I attended to—but he said his 
son would remain with him until the end. 

“His son. Boyd Hunter’s son! How strange. Weren’t you 
awfully surprised?” 

“Never more so in my life. But after all, why should we be? 
It is often done, you know, by wives who think they’ve been 
misused.” 

“What has been done? What are you talking about?” 

“Why, keeping the birth of a child a secret from the father. 
It is a mean thing to do—as a rule even harder on the child 
than it is on the father. I can see by the way Hunter has 
written me that he would have made an exemplary father. He 
seems to have forgotten nothing that would make life easier for 
his son.” 

“And the son will be well off ?” 

“The business is good—and there are some excellent securi¬ 
ties—and there is the old home—one of the best properties in 
his neighborhood—a very fortunate young man I should say.” 

“I wish he were not so much older than Doris Marie.” 

“His age will make little difference, I fancy, if Doris Marie 
decides to marry him.” 

“No,” conceded the mother, patiently, “I suppose not.” 

Boyd Hunter’s death was duly announced in the New York 
papers. Mr. Palmer wrote the announcement because he felt 
that no one else could do his old client justice, and please the 
son as well. He meant that announcement to be a tribute that 
young Hunter—his new client—would appreciate. But he was 
not responsible for the excellent portrait of Mr. Hunter—evi¬ 
dently taken when he was well and vigorous—that appeared in 
one of the Sunday journals. This journal had another photo¬ 
graph, showing a lovely bit of mountain scenery supposed to be 
the background of the sanitarium where Hunter’s last days 
were spent, and this, also, was a surprise to Palmer. The 


REJUVENATED 


65 


noticeable thing about this photograph was the omission of the 
name of the sanitarium. And there was a picture of a grave 
under a cypress tree, and a neat shaft of marble bearing the 
name of the deceased, the dates of his birth and death. 

“Morgue stuff dug up by the newspaper/’ decided Mr. Pal¬ 
mer, and thought no more about it. 

Boyd Hunter had left nothing undone that was necessary to 
the success of his plan. There was even a corpse in the casket, 
when it would really have served the purpose to use rocks as 
weights. The corpse was that of a very old man, who had died 
of old age—and the handsome young man who provided the 
funeral said he was his father. That had surprised the one 
family who had known the old man, for they had always 
thought him to be quite alone in the world. That was before 
the handsome son had chanced to find him—most unexpectedly 
—just as he was about to give up all hope of ever seeing his 
father again. The sad thing about it was that the old man had 
been too feeble-minded to realize that his son had come to see 
him, and that henceforth he would have every care that 
could be given him. The kindly family had been well repaid for 
all they had done for him, and they attended the funeral when 
he was buried. 

If ever anyone tried to be disagreeable about it, the only 
question they might find of interest would be “why was Boyd 
Hunter, Sr. living like a feeble-minded tramp when Boyd 
Hunter, Jr., found him?” But there wasn’t one chance in ten 
thousand that such a question would ever be asked. The son 
would give no hint concerning the corpse in that coffin, and who 
was to guess the truth? And if it were asked by some snoop¬ 
ing enemy, whose doubts had been aroused, couldn’t it be said 
that the old man had lost his mind at the last and wandered 
away—perhaps his money had been stolen—no one would ever 
know about that even if there were suspicions—oh, it could be 
fixed up somehow! That was the easiest part of the story. 
The plan had been worked out to perfection. 


66 


REJUVENA TED 


A cable had been sent telling Stephen Palmer when the 
young man would sail—on what steamer, and when he would 
arrive. Now the rest was in the hands of the Fates. He would 
spend the time, on board, by studying the modern young man, 
and trying to learn what he must do, what avoid, in his effort 
to appear as young as he looked. And he soon came to under¬ 
stand that his greatest problem would be “How am I to control 
my mind ? How can I avoid showing how much I despise the 
younger generation? How can I pretend to think like these 
addle pated nincompoops! Can I ever train myself to giggle 
so inanely—to laugh so like a braying jackass—to chatter so 
like a monkey, to preen myself so like a strutting peacock?” 
And then he began to realize the enormity of the task he had 
set himself. Then he began to doubt the perfection of his plan, 
and he almost wished he had not decided to be his own son. 


CHAPTER VI. 


As the great ship eased into its slip, Boyd Hunter gazed 
eagerly at the waiting throng on the wharf. A year had passed 
since he had last seen the city where most of his life had been 
spent. It was his seventieth birthday, and he was coming back 
to his own country, young, strong, well, full of vitality, vibrant 
with hopes for the future. He had never before been away from 
New York longer than a month or six weeks at a time, and 
now it seemed to him as if he must find everything changed; 
and he realized that his old acquaintances would seem almost 
like strangers,—not because they had changed, but because he 
had. That was one more of the discomforts he must endure 
because of the surprising change that had taken place in him¬ 
self. He seldom thought of the transformation in his personal 
appearance, except when he looked into a mirror, principally 
because he had made.no friends since leaving Hicks Jarou’s 
sanitarium, and there was little to remind him of it. He had 
accepted it so easily, in fact, that there had been almost nothing 
to warn him of the many surprises his new life among his old 
friends had in store for him. He believed he had foreseen every 
difficulty, and prepared for it. He had impressed upon himself 
the fact that he must be constantly on guard—that he must 
nev r er forget for one moment that he was now his son. He 
realized that he would, of course, recognize old friends, but that 
they would not know him—and he knew he must never forget 
and show surprise because they did not. He must remember 
not to speak to any of them until introduced; he must also 
remember not to show recognition of any place of interest until 
it had been pointed out to him. He really believed that would 
be about the extent of the dangers that must be side-stepped, 
except what might be encountered in his office. He was thinking 
of Stafford, his stenographer, now, Stafford who had been with 

67 


68 


REJUVENA TED 


him for more than twenty years, and who was more like a 
private secretary or even a brother than he was like a ste¬ 
nographer. No one had known him as Stafford had. Would the 
old employee suspect? Would he observe little business man¬ 
nerisms that he hitnself was not aware of—mannerisms that 
couldn’t be inherited? He was just a little afraid of Stafford. 
It might be better for the son to discharge him. But an old 
employee—and one so very efficient— the best man he had— 
really the best friend he had in the world—he’d have to think 
that over very carefully. Life in his loved office wouldn’t be as 
interesting if Stafford were not there to share it with him. 

His eye caught a familiar form. Yes, there was Stephen 
Palmer. He had suspected Palmer would come to meet him. 
He grinned down at him, then, suddenly recollecting, he looked 
far away over the crowd and kept on grinning as if very much 
amused about something he saw in the distance. He was rather 
glad to know that this first meeting with an old friend would 
take place so soon, and under conditions that would tend to 
cover up any nervousness he might show. He felt more afraid 
of meeting Stephen Palmer than anyone else—except his lynx- 
eyed old stenographer. If Palmer accepted him as “old 
Hunter’s son”—unreservedly, without one suspicious glance, 
then he believed he could carry out his plan without fear.' He 
hoped that the old attorney would not detain him long. He 
would excuse himself on the ground that he was tired—he 
would say that he had decided to take a taxi and drive at once 
to his father’s old home—that he entertained a strong—perhaps 
a sentimental, desire to get settled as soon as possible. Anyone 
ought to understand that, and not keep him talking. They 
might say that there was no caretaker and no servants and that 
the house had been closed—but he would smilingly reply that 
he felt quite sure that he would be able to find a bed to sleep 
in, and he could take his meals out. He would assure them that 
he was accustomed to looking out for himself. No one would 
be allowed to persuade him against carrying out his plan. He 


REJUVENA TED 


69 


was surprised at the fierceness of the longing that was impelling 
him to get under his own roof as speedily as possible. What it 
would mean to him to be at home once more—and alone!” 

“No need to ask if this is Boyd Hunter’s son!” His hand 
was taken in a warm grasp. His shoulder was cordially 
thumped. A pair of friendly grey eyes were smiling into his. 
“I’d have known you anywhere,” exclaimed Palmer; “you are 
the image of your father when I first met him.” 

“I believe I am like him,” replied Boyd, quietly. “I could see 
the resemblance myself, when I met him, and that is rather 
unusual, isn’t it—for a son to see himself in his father ?” 

“I think it is. We usually wait to be told by strangers of 
such resemblances. My boy, I am glad indeed to make your ac¬ 
quaintance. Just step this way, please; I want you to meet my 
wife and daughter.” He was leading the way. Boyd’s heart 
sank. “To meet my wife and daughter!” His daughter. He 
did not know how to side-step this situation. It was one for 
which he had not provided. He longed to side-step—cut and 
run. He didn’t want to meet anyone’s wife, and more especially 
anyone’s daughter at that moment; nor did he wish to meet 
any old friend—not even one of his old employees—and here 
was Mrs. Palmer whom he had never liked! And Doris Marie, 
whom he most heartily disliked—not as a young man would 
dislike her, but with the detestation of an old man who has 
been criticized, flouted, peered at by some young nincompoop, 
who owed him at least a modicum of reverence. He wanted 
to go straight home and up to his own rooms—the bedroom and 
study where he had almost lived for years; and he wanted to 
go at once, had planned to go at once—yet here he was being 
towed along, by a friendly arm across his shoulder, to meet a 
woman and girl in whom he could not feel the least bit in¬ 
terested or could have felt interested even under more auspi¬ 
cious conditions. Now, he actually felt that he hated them both 
and always would, and that he wished he might be sending 


70 


REJUVENA TED 


flowers to their funeral—something of that sort, so exasperated 
had he become! 

“I’m sorry they took so much trouble—” faltered Boyd, 
making a weak attempt to be polite, and at the same time trying 
to hang back, “and I am really not presentable—couldn’t I be 
excused? There’ll be time enough, you know—and when I’ve 
doffed my travelling suit—” 

“Oh, come now! No apologies. You didn’t think, did you, 
that we’d let the son of one of my oldest friends come to a 
strange city unwelcomed?” 

“You are most kind, I am sure,” he was interrupted. They 
had arrived. He was being presented to a rather large and 
overpowering lady with prominent light blue eyes—a lady 
whom he had seen many times, but who had never before con¬ 
sidered it worth while to show him any social attentions. He 
was being presented to a young girl with brown eyes and hair 
that was almost black, an exceedingly vivacious and stylish 
young lady who did not appeal to him at all. He frowned when 
he acknowledged the introduction and regretted that he could 
not remind her father that, not so long ago, when she was in 
the office he had advised that in his opinion the child’s future 
welfare, if it was to be good, lay in a faithful application of 
hourly spankings. He had often thanked kind Providence that 
he had not been burdened with a daughter like Doris Marie 
Palmer. He would never forget how she and Joe-Anne had 
criticized him, and would never forgive them either. Doris 
Marie was giving him her hand with quite a patronizing air, 
and telling him that she was glad he had made the journey in 
safety, and was looking so perfectly spiffy because she was so 
desperately in need of one more man at her New Year party. 

“I do not go to parties,” he replied shortly, and as if he had 
thereby settled that question for all time. 

“I expected you’d feel that way about it under the circum¬ 
stances, being practically in mourning and all that,” replied 
Doris Marie frankly, “but of course you won’t really be going 


REJUVENATED 


71 


to a party because you will already be there. I thought of that 
the first thing, when I heard you were coming.” 

“My daughter should have given me time to explain that we 
are hoping to take you home with us,” interrupted Mrs. Palmer. 

“That is very kind, Pm sure,” replied Boyd, with chilly 
politeness, “but if you will excuse me—you really must, you 
know, because I am most anxious to see my old home—my 
father’s old home—the home where he lived so many years— 
I can hardly wait to see it—” 

“I know—I know,” interrupted Mr. Palmer. “I understand 
exactly how you feel about that. But really you’d better not 
be in too much of a hurry, my boy. Better take a little advice 
about that—don’t you think? That old house has been closed 
for a year—there are no servants—it is not habitable—and you 
couldn’t possibly get anyone in during the holiday season. It 
is cold and dusty. There has been no caretaker. You’d simply 
hate it. Better come to us, as my wife suggests. We’ll do our 
best to make you comfortable.” 

“We are not going to allow you to argue the question,” added 
Mrs. Palmer, placing a proprietary hand on Boyd’s arm. “I 
couldn’t be happy to think of you all alone in that dreadful old 
house on New Year’s day. I’m simply not going to allow you 
to do anything of the sort.” 

“Then let me go to some hotel,” urged Boyd. “I shall feel 
quite out of place at a strange house and in a strange company 
—and I’m quite accustomed to living at hotels alone on all the 
holidays.” 

But no. Even as he spoke he was being steadily and relent¬ 
lessly drawn to the big limousine beside the wharf. He felt 
exactly as if he had been arrested and was on his way to prison, 
and there was no hope for him. And there really was no hope 
for him. Doris Marie had looked hard at her mother, and that 
lady had understood that it was up to her to lead the young 
man home, and was grimly obeying silent orders. 


72 


REJUVENATED 


It was not until he was seated in the car beside Doris Marie 
that Boyd realized why he was considered so much more de¬ 
sirable as a guest than he had been a year ago. For a few 
seconds he had forgotten that he was a young man, now—a 
bachelor, well-to-do and not bad looking. He suddenly per¬ 
ceived that he had become the prey of a match-making mother 
who fully understood the value of being first in the field. 
There would in all probability be other match-making mothers. 
He had read about them. He had even had some experience, 
years ago, after his wife had been gone for five or six years, 
and it was considered time for him to make other matrimonial 
arrangements. Well, he’d show them that he would not be 
putty in their hands. He had had enough of married life. He 
was not a philanderer by nature. He had really loved his wife, 
and it had hurt him because she had chosen to leave him. No 
one ever knew how that had hurt him; but he had been too 
proud to try to get her back. He had forgotten that hurt years 
ago, however, but he had never cared to take another in her 
place. He did not plan to do so now—and if he were to marry 
it would most certainly not be to a child like this insolent-eyed 
Doris Marie, who had painted herself to look like a woman of 
the streets. She reminded him of one of the Japanese dolls he 
had seen displayed in toy-shop windows, except for her look 
of sophistication, which he considered most disagreeable. 

Mr. Palmer was driving his own car, and his wife sat beside 
him. It was not easy to carry on a sustained conversation with 
them, and he was left to the companionship of Doris Marie, 
whose idea of agreeable conversation was of a nature to afford 
him profound amazement. He was as unused to the modern 
girl as though he had spent his entire life in the wilds of Africa. 
One can be quite isolated in New York City, from a social 
point of view, and still be a very successful business man. He 
had started out with the determination never to employ women 
in his business. That idea had been born of the knowledge that 
his young wife was of a jealous nature, and would not tolerate 


REJUVENATED 


73 


good-looking stenographers in her husband’s office, and he had 
had no desire to make her unhappy unnecessarily. He could 
just as well employ a young man. After his wife left, there 
remained with him a feeling of animosity, towards all her sex, 
and he soon made it known that no young woman need apply 
for work with him. So, he had missed the education that girls 
in his office would have afforded him, and he had absolutely no 
clew to the mental manifestations of Doris Marie. She chat¬ 
tered and he listened—grunting occasionally by way of reply— 
looking as if he’d swallowed bitter medicine—and thereby 
amazing her quite as much as she amazed him. What could she 
do with such a tiresome stick ? How make him see her ? Didn’t 
he have eyes ? Could it be that he was already engaged ? Even 
so, would that prevent a fellow from treating a girl civilly? 
Finally she took her case of cigarettes from her bag and offered 
him one. She had been waiting for him to offer her one of his, 
and this gesture was considered a delicate rebuke on her part. 

“I do not smoke,” he said curtly. 

“Couldn’t you have said ‘thank you; but I don’t smoke ?’ ” 
she asked, with her charmingly impudent grin. 

“No; because I do not thank any girl for offering me a 
smoke.” 

“The father of his country!” apostrophized Doris Marie, 
gazing at her companion with her hands clasped under her 
pointed chin. “Say, Mr. Hunter,” she added, “do you know, 
you made that remark sound as if it came from a man seventy 
years old.” 

“Seventy years old,” echoed Boyd, more than a little startled; 
and then he hastily but lamely added “as old as all that?” 

“Every bit,” replied Doris Marie, calmly. “You are the 
oldest young man, for one of your age and general appearance, 
that I have ever met. I’ve read of mid-Victorian, but I’d place 
you a generation or two before the dear old thick-waisted 
queen of revered memory. I remember meeting your father 


74 


REJUVENATED 


once or twice in my father’s office and he seemed to me to have 
just made one good jump out of the dark ages—” 

“If you please,” interrupted Boyd coldly, “we will not dis¬ 
cuss my father.” 

“Now don’t get huffy,” replied Doris Marie, who was at last 
having the time of her life in her self-imposed task of waking 
this young man up, “because I was just going to compliment 
your father. I was going to say that, compared to you, he was 
as up-and-coming as a mad bumble bee.” 

Boyd Hunter made no reply to this bit of impertinence, nor 
did he smile, although he understood from her provocative grin 
that he was expected to treat her remark as smart. He paid it 
no attention, because all at once he found himself trying to see 
himself as he must appear to this girl—trying to understand 
wherein he failed to appear as young as he looked—wondering 
if anyone else would accuse him of talking or thinking or act¬ 
ing like a man seventy years old. There was danger in that. 
Evidently she had pointed out a handicap that he must over¬ 
come. Instead of disliking this child so intensely that he 
could hardly be civil to her, should he not be grateful to one 
who did not hesitate to tell him what she thought of him? 
Could he not find her useful? Why not? He assured himself, 
arrogantly, that he could not be made unhappy over her opinion, 
no matter how adverse, while he might discover danger signals 
that would be useful, and decided that it would be wise to try 
to tolerate her. 

“If you please, me lord,” continued Doris Marie, with exag¬ 
gerated meekness, “do you object to my smoking?” She blew 
a slow-moving spiral of smoke through her nostrils as she 
asked the question, as if to emphasize the mockery in her 
voice. 

“Object?” repeated Boyd, trying to get an intimately casual 
tone in voice and manner, “why should I? And what good 
would it do, if I did?” 


REJUVENA TED 


75 


“Meaning you are nothing to me, oh miserable worm,” re¬ 
plied Doris Marie, promptly. “Just do as you damn please.” 

“Well, that would be one way to put it. You aren’t anything 
to me, you know.” 

“And if I were?” asked Doris Marie archly. 

“Thank God, I don’t have to think of that. If I had a 
daughter like you I’d chuck her into a convent.” 

“How sweet of you!” 

“You asked a question. I answered it as honestly as I 
could.” 

“I love to hear a young man tell how he’d bring up his daugh¬ 
ter. Are you also interested in unhatched sons?” Boyd took 
refuge in dignified silence. “You say,” continued Doris Marie, 
musingly, “that I am nothing to you. How long, Grandpa, 
must it be like that?” 

“Only a hundred years,” snapped the harrassed young man. 

“But suppose I want to be a great deal to you,” suggested the 
girl daringly. “Suppose I decline to wait a hundred years. 
Now, dear, don’t get the idea that I am proposing to you,” 
she quickly added, seeing his expression of disgust. “This isn’t 
a case of love at first sight, for I am quite sure that I dis¬ 
approve of you quite as whole-heartedly as you do of me.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you are such an infernal stick,” was the unexpected 
reply. “You may be every bit as good and wise and proper and 
holy as you think you are, but I don’t believe it. In these days, 
when a young man declares he is an angel with honest-to-gosh 
wings, all the other young people demand an opportunity to 
pull the wings. No camouflage tolerated these days, you know. 
No one except a fool—or an infernal stick—would attempt it— 
and you don’t look like a fool. I’ll tell you what I think. Your 
old hypocrite of a dad kept you concealed in a cave up there 
in the Pyrenees, and you’ve never had a chance to be young and 
human. You need training. Here,” and she touched her breast 
dramatically with her right hand, “here you behold your 


76 


REJUVENATED 


trainer. You won’t like what I’m going to do to you, but it will 
be good for you, just the same.” 

“Am I supposed to say thank you?” asked Boyd, with a 
chilly smile. 

“No, my child, you couldn’t do that, and be honest. You 
have your lips stretched in a sickly grin now, as if you were 
about to have your picture taken, but your eyes look as if you’d 
like to hit me.” 

“Spank is an excellent word,” murmured Boyd, and Doris 
Marie broke into a hearty laugh. 

“Good,” she exclaimed; “I really didn’t think you had it in 
you.” 

“I am supposed to be a young man,” thought Boyd Hunter, 
drearily; “I shall be judged and treated and entertained as a 
young man. If this girl is a specimen of the youth of today, 
what in creation am I to do? Even if I decide against the 
social life—give myself strictly to business as I have always 
done—will that serve to guard me against criticism that may 
prove dangerous? How am I to protect myself—and my 
secret ?” 

The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became 
that in idle criticism would lurk the greatest danger to his 
plans. And for the first time he got an illuminating glimpse of 
the change that had taken place in the view-point of youth 
since he was a boy. For the first time he could see that to give 
himself strictly to business, as he had done in his youth, would 
not now be taken as a matter of course. He was poor, then— 
had his way to make in the world. That excuse for retirement 
from all social pleasures would not now be accepted. He would 
be criticized. Had there been nothing to criticize, he would not 
care what was said—but he was convinced that there was cer¬ 
tain danger in criticism. He must walk carefully—live and 
learn—and Doris Marie was favoring him with more of her 
undesirable and unsolicited conversation. He must listen—try 
to learn—and never forget that safety lay in silence. From now 


REJUVENATED 


77 


on he would cultivate silence—listen and say nothing. “The 
silent young man!” That should be the description others must 
be forced to give of him. “He is very quiet. No one can guess 
what he is thinking. Sometimes he even disdains to answer a 
question—just looks at you with inscrutable eyes.” Boyd could 
almost hear them saying that, and it gave him a wonderful 
feeling of relief. “The silent young man !” He was glad he had 
thought of that. It would be an easy part to play, and it cer¬ 
tainly could not get him into trouble. 

“Do you know,” Doris Marie was saying, “I’m not going to 
call you Mr. Hunter. And I don’t like Boyd very well—it 
sounds so good and Mamma-boy, you know. Not that that 
doesn’t fit you, for it does,—but it won’t fit you at all when I’m 
through training you. I’ve decided to call you Boydicum.” 

“What—w-h-a-at?” gasped Boyd, and his seventy-year-old 
soul quailed in its dismay. Boydicum! She’d really dare call 
him — him — Boydicum ? She had been sufficiently insulting 
without that. He couldn’t allow her to call him such a name— 
he wouldn’t allow it—he absolutely would not allow it—yet, 
how could he prevent it ? That was the question with which he 
was speedily faced. How could any man prevent a spoiled girl 
from doing whatever she had decided to do—unless it chanced 
to be something for which he could have her arrested? 

“Yes,” continued Doris Marie, happily, for there was nothing 
orr earth she liked better than to-hear herself heckling a young 
man, “Yes, Boydicum. And you are to call me D. M. Don’t 
forget—D. M. All the young people call me that when they 
don’t make it plain Damn. D. M.—Damn. Get it?” 

Boyd made a faint sound that might mean an assent to her 
question, but he had reached a point where articulation was 
difficult. There had been nothing in his life to prepare him for 
the privilege of calling a girl D. M. because it sounded like 
damn. 

“You see,” continued Doris Marie, “I really thought of 
Boydicum before I had met you. It’s an awfully cute name. 


78 


REJUVENATED 


I thought I’d like to know a fellow who would just fit that 
name. You don’t—not now—but you will. Wait till I’ve 
trained you—then you’ll be the real thing. I’m going to intro¬ 
duce you to the bunch as Boydicum, and that will help them to 
overlook your tragic sissyness. I’ll explain that you are really 
not a sissy but a regular devil when one knows you. I’ll give 
it to them as a secret—a profound secret! I’ll make them think 
you’re trying to put something over—and then when you’re 
absolutely too awful for words, they’ll take it as a joke, and 
you’ll be top-hole without any effort. See? Some idea, I’ll 
tell the world. You’ll thank me for it, one of these days, 
Boydicum.” 

“May be; but I doubt it,” groaned poor Boyd. 

“Oh, you will. You see, you don’t know the young of your 
species as I do. You’ve been living in a glass cage—something 
like that. You’re unsophisticated to the nth degree. You’re 
just a new-born puppy. Without me to help you, you’d be like 
a lamb thrown to the wolves. You’ll realize all that very soon— 
see if you don’t—but not as soon as you would without me to 
protect you.” 

“I wonder to what I am indebted for your extreme kindness 
and solicitude,” asked Boyd with a cutting edge to his voice that 
is seldom found to perfection in the young. 

“I’ll tell you,” replied Doris Marie, as if tickled half to death 
with the opportunity, “I’m going to be very frank—I warn you, 
very, very frank, Boydicum—and you are not to shrivel up like 
a sensitive plant that’s been stepped on.” 

Doris Marie blew a final cloud of smoke through her nostrils 
and threw the remainder of her cigarette away. It was the third 
she had lighted, and all had been fairly well consumed before 
being discarded. There was a speculative light in Boyd’s eyes 
as he regarded her. He was wondering why anyone wanted to 
smoke—and more especially a girl whose mouth was pretty 
when not distorted by a cigarette. But Doris Marie read the 
expression quite differently. 


REJUVENATED 


79 


“You are wondering,” she gurgled, “what I can say that is 
more offensive than what I have already said. Come now— 
confess!” 

“Well, since you invite it, let it go at that.” 

Doris Marie glanced at her parents to learn whether or not 
they were eavesdropping. Not that it would have made a great 
deal of difference to her if they were, because she made it part 
of her business and pleasure to shock them. She considered 
them too old-fashioned for tolerance, and because she really 
loved them she tried to educate them enough to raise them 
above the criticism of the more caustic and observing of her 
friends. Her worried parents knew that she made it a point to 
call a spade a spade, and to make occasions for so doing when 
they did not spring up spontaneously. The world must be 
taught that it held nothing too indecent to talk about—and that 
with plain speaking it lost all semblance to indecency. She 
adored that doctrine and worked it overtime. Now she was 
invited to be as plain spoken as she pleased, and she was about 
to shock a good-looking young man into according her an atten¬ 
tion that he had been withholding. Once win his attention and 
she believed he would be hers—to play with as she pleased. 

“Well, Boydicum, it’s like this: there are not many men of 
your age who can afford to marry. You have a house, and your 
house needs a mistress. You are a stranger, here, and I’ve 
beem considering you as a possible husband.” 

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Boyd, with feeling. 

“Yes, I had you sized up all right; I knew you’d be shocked. 
But you’ll get over it. You have only to remember that girls of 
today do not believe in pretending that they do not want to 
marry, when they do. We’re all husband-hunting, and we’re all 
out to win. That doesn’t mean that we jump at the first offer 
we draw; it means we’ll marry when we find the man we want 
—if we can get him—but we study him carefully before we ac¬ 
cept him.” 


80 


REJUVENA TED 


“And you always have the opportunity to accept him ?” The 
question was asked carefully. He desired information and 
hoped he gave no indication of the disgust and amazement she 
had aroused. 

“Oh, no,” replied Doris Marie, cheerfully; “it is like every¬ 
thing else in life—one can’t always win. But we try to be good 
sports. If the man we want doesn’t want us, we don’t go into 
a decline and expire of galloping consumption as our grand¬ 
mothers did; we look about us with a view to making another 
choice. That’s why you needn’t shrink like a sensitive plant 
just because I say I am considering you as a possible husband. 
I might find that I did not like you at all.” 

“Yes ? and, vice versa ?” 

“Absolutely. On the other hand, you might find me charm¬ 
ing.” 

“I might.” 

“How much dislike you managed to get into those two 
words. Positively insulting. But you can’t hurt my feelings 
that way. You see I understand you too well to take anything 
you say very seriously.” 

“How do you manage to understand me so well when you’ve 
known me less than an hour?” Boyd felt it to be quite a 
triumph to be able to ask that question as casually as he did. 

“I began to study you before I saw you at all—just as soon, 
in fact, as I heard from daddy that you were coming. I con¬ 
sidered your father, and your mother, and their separation, and 
your father’s devotion to his business—Oh, I studied you care¬ 
fully. And I had a long talk with old Stafford, much to his 
disgust. Oh, I worked hard! That’s where I have an advan¬ 
tage over you. You weren’t thinking of a possible wife—you 
weren’t, were you?” she asked a little anxiously. 

“Lord, no! And I’m not thinking of one, now. I don’t in¬ 
tend to marry, nor do I expect to change my mind about silly 
fool girls during the next ten years.” 


REJUVENATED 


81 


“That’s all right. Everything is working exactly as I had 
planned. You’re not girl crazy—which is a great help to me. 
Don’t you just love to make plans and have them work out, 
step by step, precisely as you thought them out ?” 

“I’d love it if they did,” replied Boyd somewhat wistfully; 
“but in making plans one can never seem to prepare for the 
joker.” 

“The game wouldn’t be interesting if one could,” said Doris 
Marie, with what Boyd considered greater wisdom than she 
had yet evinced. “Girls in the olden days could never get all 
the fun there is to be found in the game of husband-choosing, 
because they had to pretend that they weren’t looking for a 
husband, and had decided to be old maids, and couldn’t pos¬ 
sibly be interested in a man until he’d proclaimed his mad desire 
for them—say, I’m getting my pronouns mixed or something. 
I seem to have one poor man going mad over several maids— 
but never mind a little slip like that; I guess there’s more truth 
than grammar in it anyhow.” 

“Your home is some distance from the heart of the city, is 
it not?” asked Boyd, who knew quite well where it was, but was 
hoping to change the trend of his companion’s conversation. 

“That means,” replied Doris Marie, “that you’ll be mighty 
glad when we get there. And I don’t blame you. I have been 
giving you some high-powered talk—but I had to do it. You 
see, I want you to understand that I am interested in you, 
before any of the other girls have an opportunity to say the 
same thing. I want you to realize that you must give me a fair 
chance, that it is up to you to do that because I have laid all 
my cards before you. It wouldn’t be sporting of you to turn 
me down before we’ve had time to get well acquainted with 
each other.” 

And at that moment, to the intense relief of Boyd Hunter, 
the car came to a stop before an old-fashioned house in the 
Sixties, and he was invited to alight by his smiling host and 
hostess. 


CHAPTER VII. 


There are few of us who have not, at some time in our lives, 
nourished a secret belief that, under more fortunate circum¬ 
stances, we might have won fame on the stage. But that was 
not true of Boyd Hunter. He had never wished to be an actor, 
in fact, had cared so little for the drama that he had not at¬ 
tended the theatre half a dozen times in his life. He did not 
believe an actor could be decent, or honest, or a Christian, or 
in any way dependable. Yet here he was, an old man in a 
young body, taking the leading part in a scene that was as 
strange to him as the leading part in a cinema production could 
have been. And he flattered himself that he was doing so well 
that he was being accepted as the real thing. He was being in¬ 
troduced to a group of youngsters—all under twenty-three 
years of age, with the sophisticated airs of forty-five. He was 
being introduced as Boydicum, and he was keeping his temper. 
“You are to be nice to Boydicum,” said Doris Marie—“but 
not too nice, because he belongs to me.” 

“For how long?” asked Joe-Anne, lazily. 

“No one knows,” replied Doris Marie cheerfully. 

“Will Sidney Holt be here, this evening?” 

“He has been invited.” 

“Did you ask Boydicum to be nice to him, or shall you ask 
him to be nice to Boydicum?” Joe-Anne’s eyes danced with 
mischief as she asked this, and deep dimples played in her 
cheeks. Those dimples were ravishing when they danced like 
that, but Joe-Anne did not like them because she said they 
would form themselves into long, deep wrinkles when she got 
older. 

“Joe-Anne is being mean,” Doris Marie explained to Boyd. 
“You see, Sidney Holt and I were engaged quite some time, 
and we broke our engagement last week.” 


82 


REJUVENA TED 


83 


“I’m sorry to hear that,” responded Boyd, with real feeling 
in his voice, and Joe-Anne giggled. 

“Don’t take Doris Marie too seriously,” she said; “she may 
open the cage door and let you go when you least expect it— 
and perhaps when you won’t want her to. Doris Marie is 
nothing if not temperamental.” 

“I am not temperamental,” denied Doris Marie; “I’m just 
being sensible. If other girls were as sensible as I am, they 
wouldn’t be seeking a divorce in a year after the wedding day.” 

“We are the ones who show good sense,” chimed a voice in 
the doorway. Sidney Holt had arrived and Myrtle Browning 
was with him. It was Myrtle who had spoken. She looked tri¬ 
umphant. Sidney looked rather sheepish. 

“Engaged, already?” asked Joe-Anne, with her customary 
directness. 

“Better than that,” crowed Myrtle; “married.” 

“You don’t mean it. When did it happen?” 

“About two hours ago. Companionate marriage. It doesn’t 
take long.” 

“And your folks agreed to that?” 

“They had to. I told them I’d go and live with Sidney with¬ 
out marrying him at all, if they didn’t agree. So they went 
with us.” 

“How in the world did you ever come to think of that stunt,” 
asked Doris Marie, of Sidney. “Did you have that in mind, the 
other day, when we talked things over?” 

“No,” replied Sidney, apologetically; “a man doesn’t have 
much to say in a case like ours, does he?” 

“Only when he wants to side-step,” interrupted Joe-Anne. 
“You’ll speak fast enough when you find that the arrangement 
doesn’t suit you,” sh,e added, mockingly. 

“I’d been reading about companionate marriage,” Myrtle was 
explaining, “and I decided that I’d like to try it. If Sydney and 
I had been obliged to wait until he got established in business, 
we couldn’t have been married in years.” 


84 


REJUVENATED 


“But I can’t see how you expect to live?” asked Doris Marie, 
who had not read of companiate marriage. “Did the respective 
dads play up?” 

“I’m going to stay on at home just as if we weren’t mar¬ 
ried,” explained Myrtle, “and Sid will stay at his home; but 
we’ll visit each other whenever we like and of course we’ll go 
everywhere together just like regularly married people. The 
two fathers will start Sid in business, and if he makes good, 
Sid’s father will buy us a home and my father will furnish it. 
Of course that will all depend upon whether we love each other 
—as we get acquainted—” 

“We’re waiting for the congratulations,” said Sidney, a little 
edge in his voice. 

“Do congratulations go with companionate marriage ?” asked 
Joe-Anne in a tone of surprise. 

“Why, not?” snapped Myrtle. 

“Oh, I’ll not explain—if you don’t feel the difference. When 
I get married, believe me I’ll not be in such a hurry that I can 
cut out the trousseau, and the wedding gifts and the brides 
maids and the big wedding—and all that goes to make this the 
big event of a girl’s life.” 

“I should say,” said Doris Marie, thoughtfully, “that Sidney 
is the one to be congratulated, and we must all wish Myrtle 
everlasting joy. Companionate marriage seems to me to have 
been invented especially for boys.” 

“It may be all right,” said Joe-Anne pacifically, “and of 
course it’s the # latest fad—but I shouldn’t like it. It seems to 
me that it tends to rob a girl of social standing. When I marry 
I want to be accepted immediately as a citizen of influence.” 

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t be,” asked Sidney, 
“when our parents back us up?” 

“All parents will feel obliged to back up their own progeny,” 
replied Joe-Anne. “They’ll declare that their own can do no 
wrong, but they won’t feel that way about other people’s 
progeny.” 


REJUVENATED 


85 


“Indeed they won’t,” declared Doris Marie, with conviction. 
“They will say the others had to marry in order to remain 
virtuous.” 

“Well, perhaps not that,” interrupted Joe-Anne, pacifically; 
“but you can see for yourself that no one will know where to 
place you. You’ll be in the debatable list—” 

“Is that where you mean to place us?” demanded Sidney; 
“is that what we may expect from our friends ?” 

“The attitude of the bunch you’ve been going with won’t 
count,” explained Joe-Anne, sensibly. “We kids love to declare 
that we run the universe and we do to an appreciable extent— 
but there’s a limit. You see, we don’t foot the bills for the en¬ 
tertainments, and the entertainments we like best are usually 
given by parents who are rather rigid in their views. First one 
of them will forget to send an invitation—and then another—” 

“For Pete’s sake,” implored Doris Marie; “do cut it out ; 
you’re spoiling my party. And say”, she added hastily, “don’t 
tell mother about the companionate marriage. I’ll explain it 
to her later on—when I can make her see that it is all right—” 

“Myrtle, it is time for us to go,” said Sidney, coldly, and 
they withdrew at once. 

“They’ve met the enemy,” paraphrased Joe-Anne, “and they 
are ours, and I’m darned sorry.” 

“I think you were rather hard on them,” said Doris Marie. 
“If isn’t for us to make things difficult for them.” 

“It is for us to look this companionate marriage stuff 
squarely in the face. If we want to advertise ourselves as in 
need of reformatory measures—all right; but I’ll tell Judge 
Lindsay, right now, that I’m not his kind of a girl.” The talk 
was interrupted by the arrival of other guests, and again Boyd 
heard Doris Marie saying that they were to be nice to him, but 
not too nice, since he belonged to her. 

“Our affair has gone farther than the silly episodes in which 
we of the younger generation usually indulge,” she explained; 
“but there have been no petting parties, nor will there be until 


86 


REJUVENATED 


we know that we are meant for each other. Boydicum is very 
particular in such matters—ours must be the ideal relationship 
or no relationship at all. We are agreed as to that.” 

Joe-Anne grinned and turned to Boyd, whom she had con¬ 
siderately drawn into a cozy nook out of the direct lime-light. 
“Already,” she said, “Doris Marie is showing the results of that 
companionate marriage business. She is becoming much more 
sympathetic towards established customs.” 

“Was she fond of Sidney Holt—has his new relationship 
hurt her?” 

“Not a bit. She could have had him if she’d wanted him— 
and she really stuck by the engagement longer than she would 
had it not pleased her parents so mightily. You see, they were 
judging Sidney by his parents, of whom they are very fond; 
they hadn’t an idea that Sidney was as modern as he is—or 
just what his modernism implies.” 

“What does it imply?” 

“It makes the majority of our young men look upon mar¬ 
riage as a means of livelihood. It never once occurred to Sidney 
that Doris Marie was worth working for. If her father could 
have been persuaded to give him a pension or something—well, 
Doris Marie wouldn’t stand for that. Her father was not given 
an opportunity to refuse—which he would have done unless 
she had adopted Myrtle’s tactics and threatened to live with 
Sid without being married. The young folks seem to think that 
gives them a strangle hold on the parents—Oh, it makes me 
tired!” 

“But you’re one of the modern young people—I should 
say—” began Boyd, with a meaning glance at her exceedingly 
brief party gown. 

“You’re criticizing my gown,” said Joe-Anne, with a grin. 
“Well, I can’t blame you. I’ve often wondered how our style 
of dress would appear to one who had been existing in the 
wilds—unless of course he came from a country where they 


REJUVENATED 


87 


don’t dress at all—just grass skirts or a strip of cotton wound 
about the body. You don’t like my gown?” 

“I think it absolutely indecent,” replied Boyd, with feeling. 

“Good. You just stick to that, say it whenever you get a 
chance, and you’ll have a slogan that will win distinction. One 
must be different in some way, these days, or one gets abso¬ 
lutely lost in the shuffle.” 

“Do you, yourself, enjoy the exposure?” asked Boyd ; “some¬ 
how” he continued, “you don’t seem quite like the others—” 

“I’m not—but neither am I a prude. At first, I hated going 
half naked; now I’m used to it I rather enjoy the freedom it 
gives. I don’t like the way we paint and powder and pluck our 
eyebrows—and so, as you see, I follow at a distance—do just 
enough to get by. And I’m one of the few remaining fossils 
who believe in love and a hero who will come out of the clouds 
and steal one’s heart away, and with whom one can build up a 
home and be happy ever after.” 

Doris Marie joined them, giving Boyd a little understanding 
smile as she linked her arm in his. “I’ve got it all fixed up,” 
she said happily. “Now, if you make any bad social blunders, 
you’ll be excused—” 

“But Doris Marie,” interposed Joe-Anne, “you’re all wrong. 
Let him be himself, He’ll be more interesting—distinctive, you 
know—all that sort of thing—” 

“Not at his age, Joe-Anne,” replied Doris Marie with con¬ 
viction. “A young man could carry it off—but he is thirty years 
old. He can’t afford to be different from the bunch.” 

“I don’t consider him too different to get by,” replied Joe- 
Anne. 

“Won’t you let me be the judge as to that?” asked Doris 
Marie, a trifle too sweetly. “It can’t make any great difference 
to you, you know,” she added, “while my happiness may be at 
stake—” 


88 


REJUVENATED 


“Oh you blessed fraud, do stop your posing,” interrupted 
Joe-Anne with her good natured grin. “You may impose on 
others, but you can’t on yours truly.” 

Joe-Anne drifted away and Doris Marie took Boyd into her 
confidence in such a way that he felt as if it would require 
some extraordinary effort on his part to tear himself free from 
his tentative position as the property of this most disagreeable 
girl. “I’ve got them all guessing,” she said, “I’ve said, quite 
mysteriously, that you are not what you seem, but that I’m 
not going to give them the tiniest clue to your really wonderful 
personality.” 

Boyd understood that she was paving the way for a proper 
reception of whatever he might do that would arouse criticism, 
and he silently blessed her for that. 

Doris Marie led him into a corner to give him a lesson in 
dancing. He had confided to her earlier in the evening that he 
had never learned to dance, hoping that would serve as an 
excuse for absenting himself from the festivities. But he had 
yet to learn how very determined Doris Marie could be. 

“Oh,” she replied airily, “the dances of today are so easy 
that an aged and feeble-minded man with a club foot could do 
them after a little practice. I simply won’t believe that they are 
beyond you.” 

And now he was in a corner of the room, and Doris Marie 
had taken his hand and drawn it about her slender little waist, 
and the music had started, and he was being dragged around, 
back and forth, up and down the room, jiggety—jig—jiggety— 
jig—spin three times around—he, Boyd Hunter! A deacon in 
the church—a man who had denounced dancing in no uncertain 
terms, and who had believed all he had said against it. He 
caught some of the boys exchanging glances, grinning gleefully, 
signalling Doris Marie that she had their sympathy. That put 
him on his mettle. Damn them, he’d show them that he could 
do whatever any other young fellow did. He’d dance, or die 
trying. He set his mind to the unwelcome task and was soon 


REJUVENATED 


89 


dancing quite creditably. Not only that, but he had to admit 
that he was enjoying the exercise. His body was young and 
strong and supple and now lent itself easily to the guidance of 
Doris Marie. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he actually felt 
that he could dance all night and not feel weary. He also 
acknowledged to himself that it gave him a delightful thrill to 
hold the soft warm little body in his arms. For the first time 
since he had left the sanitarium he realized that he really was 
young. 

Yes, he was young. Exercise was a joy. Dancing was fine 
exercise. And he had already decided against again becoming a 
deacon in the church. Probably he’d not be asked to take that 
position anyhow. He was too young. Young. But was he? 
The other young fellows were dancing as if they were thinking 
of nothing else. They were living in the present. One had only 
to study them to know that. And he? No, he wasn’t doing 
that. His past—but he must not think of that now. He must 
dance. 

If only he could train himself to think as the modern young 
person did—but did he really want to do that? Was it neces¬ 
sary? After all he was supposed to be some eight or ten vears 
older than most of them; would that not give him the right 
to certain opinions supposed to be held only by the mature, and 
would he not be fairly safe from destructive criticism if he 
voiced those opinions ? Perhaps he had been too apprehensive. 
Hadn’t he been just a little cowardly as well? Why had he 
kept still while that irritating girl made all those absurd state¬ 
ments about his being her property ? He must make her under¬ 
stand that he wouldn’t tolerate any more of such talk. He had 
no intention of being linked with her in any sort of prematri- 
monial affair. The sooner he made her realize that the better. 
He stopped dancing, determined to act on that thought at once, 
and led Doris Marie to a cozy nook arranged for petting parties 
and supposed to be Japanese in style. 

“Tired already?” asked Doris Marie in surprise. 


90 


REJUVENA TED 


“No,” he replied, “I want to tell you something.” 

“All right, but put your arm behind me before you begin. 
You look cross enough to eat nails, and I don’t want the bunch 
to think we are quarrelling so soon. Put your arm behind me, 
I say. There! Now if we’ve got to quarrel, let’s get it over 
with.” 

“We are not qarrelling,” he replied, sternly, “but you are to 
pay careful attention to what I tell you. Understand me, 
please. I am in earnest. Never again shall I stand quietly by 
while you are getting off all that outrageous stuff about our 
studying each other’s characteristics with a view to—” 

“Oh, that!” interrupted Doris Marie, giggling; “I saw that 
didn’t set well; but don’t worry, it won’t happen again. The 
bunch understand, and they’ll keep off the grass. They are all 
good sports.” 

“But I want it understood that there is absolutely no truth 
in what you have been telling them. I will not have our names 
linked together in any such way.” 

“You want me to make that announcement?” 

“I insist upon it.” 

“You’d better think twice before doing that.” 

“If you don’t make my position clear, I shall do so myself.” 

“You’d better think that over several times before doing it.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

“It is a warning. I’ve been trying to do you a service. If I 
withdraw my friendship, and say what I think, and what you 
deserve, you won’t have one friend among all the young people 
whose parents knew your father. You’ll be left entirely alone, 
and more than that you’ll be ridiculed until your life won’t be 
worth living.” 

“Nonsense. You are talking like a spoiled child. What do 
you suppose I care for the opinion of a group of nincompoops 
such as you have gathered together here!” Boyd was asserting 
himself with a vengeance. He was talking exactly as he felt, 
and he did not realize how very peculiar it sounded coming 


REJUVENATED 


91 


through the lips of a man of thirty. He was scolding like a 
narrow-minded despotic old man of seventy, and he had yet to 
learn that the youth of today takes no stock in the opinions of 
their elders. 

“Listen, Boydicum,” interrupted Doris Marie, with what she 
considered exemplary patience, and as she spoke she drew 
Boyd’s arm more closely about her shoulders, and allowed her 
short curls to tickle his neck. “Listen closely for you are about 
to hear something that is spoken only for your good.” 

She giggled as she said this, recognizing its similarity to 
speeches her mother had made to her only a few years ago, but 
she considered it one mark of a true friend to let this young 
man understand exactly what his situation would be in case 
she abandoned him as hopeless. She could think of nothing 
more horrible than to be absolutely ignored by the young people 
who ruled her little corner of the world. Since babyhood her 
cry had been, “I must do this—I must do that—I must do as 
the others do or I’ll be left out of everything,” and her mother 
had heeded her cry and permitted many things that her com- 
monsense deplored. Do anything—anything—rather than be 
ignored was the slogan of her age, and most parents repudiated 
their duties as parents and bowed before that slogan. Then 
they wondered why their children did not respect them, and 
failed to see that they were responsible for the Doris Marie 
style of young person. But Boyd had no clue to her point of 
view. He could not understand just how horrible was the fate 
Doris Marie saw in store for him unless he heeded her warning 
and allowed himself to be saved. The situation was very grave. 
She must adopt extreme measures. She’d have a very de¬ 
lightful time, later on, telling her friends how dramatic it had 
been. Had she known she was talking to a man seventy years 
old instead of to his son—but of course she didn’t have a sus¬ 
picion of that. 

“Listen Boydicum; you must understand that we all know 
that your father was really quite a dreadful old man—” 


92 


REJUVENATED 


“I have said that we would not discuss my father/’ inter¬ 
rupted Boyd, who was quivering with just rage, and nearly 
ready to explode. 

“But we must, in order for you to understand. You are too 
much like your father—” 

“Too much like my father!” 

“Everyone is talking of the uncanny resemblance, and such 
talk isn’t going to help you a little bit.” 

“I happen to know that my father was liked and re¬ 
spected—” 

“Without doubt he told you so. He would. Perhaps he be¬ 
lieved it himself. But let me tell you that he was the loneliest 
old man in the world. He was never invited anywhere, because 
he was never wanted. Respected? Yes, in a way. There 
wasn’t much against him, I guess, but no one wanted him 
around. You’d die if you had to live as he did. Anyone would, 
unless his veins were filled with vinegar. Now hold on—” as 
Boyd tried to withdraw his arm and leave her— “you’d better 
listen. You won’t have a friend in our set if I go back on you.” 

Boyd’s seventy-year-old brain admitted that he’d be wise to 
control his temper and listen. He knew he had never made 
warm friends, but he did not know the reason. In order for 
him to play his part properly, Boyd Hunter, Jr. must know 
why Boyd Hunter, Sr. was considered the loneliest man in the 
world—must know how this jazzy, painted, shallow-pated girl 
had learned the bitter, carefully guarded secret of the old man 
who was himself. She was right in thinking that he did not 
want to go back to that loneliness. He longed for friendship. 

“Is it the custom of this country,” he asked stiffly, “ for 
young people to criticize their parents, or listen to criticisms 
of them?” 

“Sure, if they deserve it. Parents are only people.” 

“You would allow anyone to criticize yours?” 

“Why not ? They’re not above criticism. In this day, no one 
wants to be like his parents in any way whatsoever. Parents 


REJUVENATED 


93 


are all back numbers. They’ve been found out. They preached 
to their children against the very thing they were doing them¬ 
selves. They don’t face the truth about anything. And of all 
the parents of this day and generation your old father was one 
of the most despicable. Now don’t get your back up. You 
must know I speak the truth. Anyhow, it is just as well for 
you to know what everyone is thinking. He let his wife leave 
his home when she was with child, and could not be held re¬ 
sponsible for anything she did or said—and he paid no atten¬ 
tion to his son until he was about to die and had no one else to 
carry on his business. He was a selfish old beast all his life. 
He was deacon in the church for many years because he liked 
to carry the contribution box and see his friends put in money. 
There is no record of any good cause that he ever helped. He 
broke no laws, because it wouldn’t have interested him to do 
so, and there would have been nothing in it for him. He was 
considered a good citizen simply because he had never been 
tempted to be anything else—not because he believed it his 
duty to be a good citizen.” 

“Stop it,” commanded Boyd, who was white to the lips. “I 
won’t listen to such lies. Where did you get all your slanderous 
accusations ?” 

“We all heard what your father’s old friends said when they 
heard that he couldn’t live, and afterward, when we knew that 
you were coming to take his place. We youngsters asked ques¬ 
tions. We wanted to know what we might expect of you. We 
found a few old people who had known your mother. They 
liked her—had only pleasant things to say of her—and we 
hoped you might be like her. You can imagine how we felt 
when we saw you—the image of your tight-lipped, stingy, 
narrow-minded, puritanical, dried-up old dad. Now, Boydicum, 
you may believe me when I say that the only thing that can 
save you is to make yourself as different from him in every 
respect as you possibly can.” 


94 


REJUVENATED 


“And if I don’t?” asked Boyd, with cold fury. 

“If you don’t you’ll be ostracized. We young people will see 
to that. Your father’s old acquaintances will soon be convinced 
that you are not worth a quarrel with us youngsters, 'they 
bear your father's memory in no great respect, and there is 
nothing so attractive about you as to induce them to take up 
the cudgels in your behalf.” 

“And now that I’ve heard your ultimatum, may I be per¬ 
mitted to retire?” 

“You may do exactly as you damn please. I shall give you 
time to think this over, because I realize that you are a poor 
half-baked cub who knows nothing whatever about modern 
social conditions. So, I shall not mention this conversation, or 
our tottering friendship, until you do. The moment you an¬ 
nounce that you are opposed to my views, I shall begin my 
campaign. And I shall have the sensation of my young life— 
a mental battle with an honest-to-bust barbarian.” 

Boyd actually gasped like a fish out of water when he heard 
that. Anger is a mild term for the sensation he experienced. 
He was too furious for words. Doris Marie stared at him in¬ 
credulously for a moment, but no matter how great her aston¬ 
ishment she was never at a loss for words. 

“For the love of Pete!” she exclaimed—“Jekyll and Hyde.” 

“What do you mean by that?” There was an undertone of 
fear in the almost whispering voice that asked the question. 

“Why, the most curious change came over your face—and 
into your eyes. It was like a dark cloud passing over your 
face, Boydicum, and it made you look exactly like your father, 
only older. Actually, for the moment you looked eighty years 
old.” 

“I guess I do have a beastly temper,” murmured Boyd, con¬ 
tritely. 

“Well, if temper makes you look like that, you’d better 
stamp on it. I’m not so sure that I want to play around with 
you after all.” 


REJUVENATED 


95 


Boyd was worried, now. Doris Marie had thrown off his 
encircling arm, and when he sought to replace it, she left her 
seat quite abruptly. 

A young man, seeing Doris Marie standing, now claimed her 
for the next dance. 

“Yes, Billy,” she said, pleasantly, “I had not forgotten!” 
then to Boyd, “Boydicum, I want you to meet Billy Sands. He’s 
the nicest kid in our bunch. Billy, this is my latest victim, Mr. 
Boyd Hunter. You nearly caught us quarreling, but it wasn’t 
serious.” They floated out on to the dance floor, and Boyd 
slowly made his way through the throng towards the door that 
led to the stair case. He would go to his room. He wanted to 
be alone where he could think this thing out. So he looked old 
when angry! He had perhaps alienated the only girl who had 
shown herself willing to help him live under the new and trying 
social conditions that had been forced upon him. He had made 
a bad beginning. Boyd had barely reached the door when he 
met his hostess coming in with her arm about the waist of a 
young woman who had evidently just arrived. 

“Oh, Mr. Hunter,” she exclaimed, “how very fortunate! I 
want to introduce you to my baby sister, who has come quite 
unexpectedly to spend a few weeks with us. This is Mr. Boyd 
Hunter, dear, of whom I have been telling you. My sister, 
Miss Clara Wilton. You two can finish this dance together, 
and tffen, Boyd, you’ll please let Doris Marie know of her aunt 
Clara’s arrival.” 

And so instead of getting away by himself where he could 
think, Boyd Hunter found himself dancing with a charming 
girl of thirty-five years, who was as different from the other 
girls in the room as could possibly be imagined. 

It is not a tribute to a man’s good judgment in the matter of 
selecting a wife that a girl like Clara Wilton should reach the 
age of thirty-five years without being married at least once; 
but it is a common occurrence. Few men recognize the born 
wife and mother and homemaker and companion when they 


96 


REJUVENA TED 


see her outside the environment which should be hers. They 
are more apt to be attracted by color and noise and mental and 
moral jazz. Clara Wilton longed for a home and a husband, 
but she didn’t know how to go to work to make her dreams 
come true. She had never let anyone know she would have liked 
attention. She could no more have solicited the attention of 
any man than she could have said leg when limb was obviously 
the more lady-like word to use. It was not that she would 
have hesitated to use any word that was required, but she saw 
no reason to drag in anything that was coarse when she had a 
choice. She had a fine mind, well stored. She talked intelli¬ 
gently on the topics of the day, but she did not swear. She had 
not bobbed her beautiful hair because she did not believe 
bobbed hair would be becoming. She did not wear her gowns 
extremely short because she considered such a style absolutely 
nasty. For the same reason, she did not wear her gowns so low 
that most of her body was exposed. And she could not under¬ 
stand why anyone should deliberately tie themselves to a habit 
so useless and expensive and dirty as the use of tobacco. While 
she never judged her niece’s friends openly, she often wondered 
how they could be as pleased with themselves as they were. 

Clara Wilton was a decided blonde, with an abundance of 
beautjful tawny hair, a fine pink skin, good honest blue eyes 
and firm lips with dimples at the corners to soften their au¬ 
sterity. As a child she had been too thin for beauty; but she 
had taken on flesh as she grew older and was now just plump 
enough to be at her prettiest. Boyd Hunter liked her at once, 
and was glad of the opportunity to show her some attention. 
He found her very restful after Doris Marie, and he thought 
it might be well for girls like Doris Marie and her friends to 
be shown that sensible men preferred the nice modest old fash¬ 
ioned girls. And so he bestowed upon Clara his most attractive 
smile as he boyishly called her attention to his deficiencies as a 
dancer; but Clara danced beautifully and easily and had no 
difficulty in guiding him through the crowd. He enjoyed that 


REJUVENATED 


97 


dance immensely. So did Clara. They talked as they danced, 
and they also enjoyed that. Doris Marie, who had seen them 
dancing together and was not pleased, kept away from them, 
making no effort to conceal her displeasure, but they did not 
notice her at all. They sat together talking easily while they 
awaited her arrival. Finally Clara looked about the room, and 
caught her eye. “Doris Marie is not making haste to greet 
me,” she said. 

“Shall I take you to her ?” asked Boyd, suddenly remember¬ 
ing that he had been entrusted by his hostess with some such 
duty. But Clara decided that they need not go in search of 
her. “She has her other guests,” she said with a smile, “and 
I am at best an old story. If she cares to welcome me she’ll 
come where I am.” 

Doris Marie was furious. She could no longer control her¬ 
self, and rushed from the room in search of her mother. It 
was imperative that her mother should realize how angry she 
was. What right had her aunt to butt in like that when she had 
not been invited, she demanded. Her mother reminded her that 
Clara had not known that she was giving a party. She had 
come to make a little visit as she did quite frequently and a§ 
she had every right to do. Wasn’t a mother allowed to see her 
own sister under her own roof ? 

“You might have kept her in your own room,” retorted Doris 
Marie. 

“I saw no reason why she should not enjoy the dancing. 
She loves to dance as well as you do, and she doesn’t often 
have so good an opportunity.” 

“Opportunity! Huh! You know well enough what I mean. 
She is just a mean old cradle-snatcher—that’s exactly what 
she is.” And Doris Marie flounced away, leaving her mother 
entirely enlightened as to the cause of her grievance. 

“Cradle snatcher!” the mother smiled, “and Clara can’t be 
more than five years older than Boyd. A difference of five 
years really amounts to nothing because Clara is not one to 


98 


REJUVENATED 


grow old very fast. It would be a good match for her, and a 
bad match for Doris Marie, and Boyd is much more likely to 
choose Clara than Doris Marie. I hope it comes off. Clara will 
never have a better opportunity, and Doris Marie can marry 
any one of a dozen men nearer her own age.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


As Boyd seated himself at the beautifully appointed break¬ 
fast table, on the morning following the New Year party, he 
glanced somewhat apologetically at his hostess. He looked very 
much like a small boy apprehensive of undeserved rebuke. 
Mrs. Palmer had constituted herself a sort of kindly guardian 
—put it over in less than thirty-six hours—and made him feel 
under obligations to her. The situation puzzled him. His social 
training had been neglected and he couldn’t guess what was 
expected of him. He did not wish to appear ungrateful for the 
friendly interest his hostess had accorded him, but just the 
same he meant to free himself from her domination. He in¬ 
tended to take the first opportunity to make an announcement 
that he knew she would not like, and he was quite determined 
that neither argument nor persuasion should cause him to 
change his plans. She had told him she meant to keep him as 
her guest for at least a week, and she was one of those dom¬ 
inating hostesses whose guests were always wary about as¬ 
serting their own individuality. Notwithstanding his fear of 
her displeasure, Boyd was going to his own home. He was 
going immediately after breakfast. He had already packed his 
suitcase and ordered a taxi. He hoped the taxi would arrive 
at an opportune moment—just before his hostess could offer 
any objections to his going that he would find difficult to set 
aside. He knew very well that his presence in her home was 
so particularly desired because he was a bachelor and eligible, 
and she had two unmarried girls on her hands. He did not 
flatter himself that she would insist upon entertaining him for 
any other reason. It was her business as a society matron to 
see to it that no other match-making matron should get her 
claws into him before she had him securely tied and labelled. 

But the nature of Mrs. Palmer’s protest surprised him. 


99 


100 


REJU VENA TED 


“Surely,” she said, looking shocked and incredulous, “you are 
not thinking of living in that horrible old house. Inspect it, 
of course, dear boy; that is your duty—but as for living in it, 
why, Boyd, you couldn’t possibly do that.” 

“I don’t see why not,” replied Boyd with an acidity in his 
voice that he had not intended. He was naturally indignant. 
He had lived in that house a great many years. He had been 
away from it only a year. No one could know more about it 
than he did himself—and he loved it; but circumstances pre¬ 
vented him from defending it as he would have liked to do. 
Naturally it was somewhat difficult to be civil to anyone who 
would dare speak of it as a horrible old house. 

“You’ll understand what I mean,” said Mrs. Palmer softly, 
“when you have seen the place.” She had noticed that he was 
hurt because she had characterized his father’s house as 
horrible—but as his guardian and prospective relative—either 
as mother-in-law or sister-in-law, she must see that he did him¬ 
self properly. 

“My house may be as horrible as you seem to think,” replied 
Boyd coldly, “but my father lived there—” 

“He would,” interrupted his hostess; “that fact is illuminat¬ 
ing. It is exactly the sort of house in which he would live. He 
lived there many years after he had become rich enough to 
afford something better. You will understand, when you see 
that place, what I do not feel quite at liberty to say—but I will 
say this—that old house should tell you just how your father 
was rated as a citizen. All the best people in his old corner of 
the town are hoping for something more progressive from 
you.” 

“All the same,” replied Boyd stubbornly, “I feel that it will 
seem like home to me.” 

“Castles in the air,” rejoined his hostess, archly; “you are 
doomed to disappointment.” 

“Perhaps; but I’ll try it out.” 


REJUVENATED 


101 


“Why not take a comfortable suite of rooms in an apartment 
for bachelors/’ suggested Mr. Palmer. “I know a number of 
fine young men who find these suites delightful. Let me take 
you to see one—I’ll introduce you to some young fellows—” 

“Please—not at present,” interposed poor Boyd. “I’ve been 
thinking of that old house—my father’s old home—you see he 
told me all about it. I know its drawbacks—yet I feel that I’d 
rather live there than anywhere else.” 

“But you are too young to keep up an establishment like 
that,” urged Mrs. Palmer, “even if the house were in good con¬ 
dition. There are so many difficulties—why tie yourself up ?— 
and the servant problem is simply appalling. Think of the do¬ 
mestic situation—you know nothing of conditions here. It is 
bad enough when there is a woman at the head of things—but 
a young man—alone—why, you must understand that no re¬ 
spectable housekeeper would care to do for you, unless she 
were too old to do anything else.” 

“In England,” replied Boyd, “young men employ either 
Japanese or Chinese to do for them. I think I might manage 
that way very nicely. Anyhow,” with a grim determination 
that he hoped sounded like boisterous gaiety, “I mean to make a 
try at it. If I find it unsatisfactory I don’t have to stay. I can 
always close the house again and try the bachelor apartments.” 

“That is true,” agreed Mrs. Palmer, adding as if it were an 
afterthought, “or you can marry. After all, that is the wisest 
way for any young man who is able to keep up a home, and 
has a longing for domesticity.” 

“Perhaps,” replied Boyd, dubiously. “Marriage is all right, 
I suppose, when it succeeds; but when it doesn’t one might as 
well live in hell.” 

This speech surprised the speaker even more than it did his 
audience. He certainly had not meant to say anything of the 
sort; but a sudden recollection of his silent old house where 
he had spent so many lonely hours—and a fugitive thought 
of the few brief months when his wife had made a real home 


102 


REJUVENATED 


of it, and then gone away and left him alone—these two mem¬ 
ory pictures had served to fill him with a rebellion against 
marriage that drove the words from his lips with a fury that 
was appalling. For a moment he feared for his secret. He 
had spoken as one entirely too well informed. But his hearers 
believed that they understood, and they were sorry for him. Of 
course he was thinking of the trouble that had separated his 
parents, and they considered it only natural that he should 
appear cynical. They were almost sorry they had spoken—but 
not quite, because they did wish he would take them into his 
confidence—tell them just what had happened, and which par¬ 
ent had his sympathy, and how his mother had managed to live, 
and if she had ever been sorry she had run away, and whether 
his father had ever tried to get her to return to him, or ever 
contributed to her support. It did seem to them that there was 
too much romance in the situation to be, wasted when an ap¬ 
preciative audience so longed for it. 

“There are happy marriages, you know, dear boy,” suggested 
Mrs. Palmer in her most dulcet tones. “And even when a 
marriage is only half-way ideal, it is far, far happier than to 
be alone in the world.” 

“The safest way, to my notion, is to remain unmarried,” 
replied Boyd curtly. 

“It certainly is for some people,” chimed in a cool young 
voice from the doorway, and Doris Marie entered the room. 
Only six words, yet she had managed to convey her belief that 
one Boyd Hunter was beneath the notice of any self-respect¬ 
ing girl. “And so you're leaving us,” she added, cheerfully, 
as if she were more than reconciled to his departure, and in 
something of a hurry to speed the parting guest. “How quaint¬ 
ly you’ll fit into your queer old father’s house! Of course 
you want to try it out as soon as you can.” This was added 
to warn her doting parents that the young man’s room had be¬ 
come much more desirable than his company. She put it over, 
too, leaving no doubt either in the minds of her parents or 


REJUVENATED 


103 


that of their guest that a thorny rod was in pickle for him. 
Before he could make any reply, she exclaimed with pretty 
enthusiasm as she glanced out the window, “why, there’s your 
taxi, now. How fortunate that it didn’t delay your departure!” 

Boyd thanked his host and hostess for what they had tried 
to do for him, accorded Doris Marie an exceedingly curt and 
indifferent nod of farewell, and left an unnecessarily pleasant 
and appreciative message with Mrs. Palmer for her charming 
sister. One might have thought he was really disappointed 
because Clara had not come down to breakfast. The servant 
brought his grips, and he took his departure as gracefully as he 
could, knowing that a pair of mocking brown eyes were curi¬ 
ously studying his feet, as if she found them amusing. What 
in thunder was wrong with them! How could a fellow walk 
naturally when he was being stared at like that! 

Boyd breathed a sigh of relief as he settled himself in his 
taxi. Now he could be alone. Now he could think. Now he 
would have time to review his plan, study its defects so far as 
they had been revealed to him, and plan his next moves. He 
had believed that his plan had been perfect in every detail, but 
in less than forty-eight hours he had become convinced that his 
fences required mending all along the line. He could see, now, 
that many questions would be asked that he could not answer, 
and be safe. He had determined, as part of his plan, to hold 
himself so aloof, and with such dignity, that he would speedily 
discourage the asking of personal questions. But he had 
not reckoned on the young people of this generation to which 
he was supposed to belong—or to the generation just behind 
his. They were no respecters of persons. They called un¬ 
pardonable curiosity being honest and aboveboard, and they 
were interested in him, therefore they would give him no 
peace. Questions would be asked. His only safe course lay in 
silence—but silence to the young people he had met would 
act like the waving of a red rag before the eyes of a bull. It 
would only serve to stimulate their curiosity. They would 


104 


REJUVENA TED 


scent a mystery. “How perfectly gorgeous!” he could hear 
them exclaim, “now we can all become honest-to-God detec¬ 
tives.” He would be dissected, metaphorically speaking, and 
his pieces would be fed to the ravens, and the young people 
would have a perfectly spiffy time at his expense. 


“Well,” he said aloud, after thinking it all out—“I won’t 
answer questions. In silence lies safety. They may guess 
what they like—they may say what they please—but if I keep 
still my enemies will have no clew to my past which they can 
use for my undoing.” 

Boyd secured the services of a capable Japanese, without 
undue delay, and paid him twice as much as he had ever paid 
for the help who had cared for his home in the good old days 
before his regeneration. The old woman and her husband, 
whom he had employed for many years were still available. 
He might engage them. His heart hungered for their pres¬ 
ence in his home—for they knew so well how to make him 
comfortable—but he quickly decided that it wouldn’t be safe to 
have them in his home. They knew his habits too well—his 
slightest gesture had always brought a prompt response—he’d 
be in danger of falling back into his old ways, and they would 
become suspicious, where a stranger would be unobserving. 
No, he must forego the pleasure of being ministered to by 
them. He hated foreigners, but, after all, it was more in line 
with modern ideas for a young bachelor to employ Japanese 
help. He’d have to do it. He had been forced into a generation 
where he did not belong, and he’d gain nothing and might 
lose much by ignoring all the customs that men of his apparent 
age considered of importance. His new servant bore a very 
romantic Japanese name, but Boyd called him George—which 
is exactly what the seventy-year-old Boyd would have done. 
Any dark-skinned servitor who waited upon him must be 
named George, and this Japanese George he had employed 


REJUVENATED 


105 


soon had his home running as smoothly as any home in the 
city. 

Boyd was home again. He had spent his first night in his 
old room, and he awoke feeling as if he had never left it. He 
was happy. Then he chanced to raise his head from his pil¬ 
lows, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror—a 
young man with a shock of curly red hair! And today he was 
to make his first appearance in his office—his first in a long year 
—and he had to act as if he had never been in the place be¬ 
fore. He’d have to allow himself to be shown where to find 
things—which desk had been his father’s—to be introduced to 
employees he himself had hired and trained. He’d have to be 
introduced to Stafford—his stenographer, who was also his 
private secretary—Stafford who had been with him for a 
great many years, and who knew him better than anyone else 
had ever known him. Stafford who was the most observing 
man he knew. Would he guess? What would happen if he 
should ? He couldn’t believe that Stafford would betray him— 
yet he did not want him to guess the truth. Should he dis¬ 
charge Stafford—pick a quarrel ? Say he preferred a younger 
man? Could he do that? Why, Stafford was really the best 
friend he had. And how could he manage without him ? There 
was no one else in whom he could confide so fearlessly. He 
could never find another man to equal him. He liked Stafford 
so much that he simply couldn’t hurt him. Besides, the man 
was no longer young; he’d given his best years to the business; 
if he were to be discharged, now, he’d never be able to secure 
another position. It would break the old fellow’s heart. He 
couldn’t do it. He simply could not do it. After all, there 
wasn’t a chance in a hundred that the man would guess his 
secret. Such an unbelievable secret as it was! Why should he 
fear that anyone would guess the truth. He was safe. Why 
worry ? 

Boyd opened his office door and stood, shy and uncomfort¬ 
able, just inside the room. Yes, everything was exactly as it 


106 


REJUVENATED 


had always looked. He had hoped some changes might have 
been achieved—something that would make his inevitable and 
carefully considered questions sound more convincing. He 
had taken off his hat, quite unconsciously, and his hair looked 
rough, unruly, and full of vitality, while his pleasure in seeing 
his old office had filled his eyes with a happy, dancing light. 
Youth and vitality. That was the first thing that anyone, 
glancing at him, would notice. 

Stafford, his back to the door, was fumbling with the safe— 
trying to get the lock, which seemed to have stuck, so that it 
would turn. He knew some one had entered, but gave his un¬ 
divided attention to his task. That was his way—never to leave 
anything partially finished. Boyd smiled, understanding^, 
affectionately, as he recalled this trait in the man’s character. 

Finally Stafford turned and faced him. It was a tense mo¬ 
ment for Boyd Hunter. The old man studied him for a long 
moment before he spoke, then, involuntarily, he breathed an 
exclamation of utter astonishment. “Good Lord,” he said, 
and again, “Good Lord.” 

“Why call on the Lord,” asked Boyd, trying to appear 
facetious. “Am I as formidable as all that?” 

“I can remember you when you looked like that,” stam¬ 
mered Stafford, “and I was a mere youngster when you—” 
he stopped, perplexed, anxious, ill-at-ease, then added, “when 
your father—Oh, my Lord!” 

Boyd was terribly shaken by this introduction, but managed 
with difficulty to pull himself together. 

“Are you,” he began, then hesitated, wetting his dry lips, and 
hastened on, as boyishly impulsive as he could make it— 
“Of course you must be Mr. Stafford.” 

“Yes,” muttered Stafford, as if dazed, “yes, I guess I am.” 

“Did I startle you—coming in without knocking?” 

“You knocked me for a goal, all right. You’ve taken the 


REJUVENATED 


107 


wind out of me. I’m dazed. I could have sworn you were 
your father. I still feel that you must be. Why, man, you can’t 
be anyone else.” 

“Do I resemble my father as closely as all that?” 

“Resemble him!” The words came like an explosion; “you 
are him. To the life. It’s uncanny. You’re exactly as I saw 
him forty years ago, when I first came into this office. I was 
twenty years old; he was thirty. I’ve worked for him ever 
since—and we’ve been friends.” 

“I know.” Boyd was deeply touched. He longed to rush 
into the faithful old secretary’s arms and tell him that his 
heart had not betrayed him, that his old friend had returned. 
But that wouldn’t be safe. Even Stafford must not know the 
truth. But he might guess—what then? Boyd was convinced 
that in such an event there would be nothing for him but to 
leave the city—leave his beloved office and his shabby old 
home—Oh, he couldn’t do that. He never wanted to go away 
again even for a day. Yet he knew that he’d never be able to 
face ridicule—that if his secret were to become known he 
should run away like a criminal. 

“How do you know ?” the old secretary was asking, eagerly. 

“My—eh—my father told me.” He pretended to be choking 
back what might pass for natural emotion—but he did hate to 
lie to Stafford. “My father talked of you incessantly during 
—eh—his last days.” 

“Why didn’t you send for me? I’m sure he’d have been 
glad to talk things over with me before—he—died.” 

“He never mentioned sending for you or I—I should have 
done so—you must believe that. It didn’t occur to me to take 
the initiative in that—or anything—I was just learning all I 
could.” 

“Of course. I can understand that. You couldn’t really 
know what friends we’d been. But he—your father—knew 
the end was near—his letters to Palmer—I’ve seen them—I’m 
sure he must have wished to see me.” 


108 


REJUVENATED 


“Oh, he did—often—” interrupted Boyd eagerly. “But he 
thought you were needed here. It comforted him to know that 
you were here looking after things—holding down the job for 
me.” 

“I wonder if I shall ever be able to feel that I’m not talking 
to—to good old Boyd himself. Why your very voice is like 
his—the way you enunciate—everything. I can’t believe that 
you are you—especially when I’m not looking at that red hair 
of yours and remembering that the Boyd I last saw was bald.” 

“Why try to keep us apart in your mind? I need a friend. I 
fancy I haven’t the least idea how much I shall need a friend 
during the months ahead of me. Can’t we just begin where 
you and my father left off?” 

“I don’t know. I can’t promise. It is uncanny. It makes me 
uncomfortable. It—it actually makes me a—a little ill—” 

“Your affection for my father—” murmured Boyd, who was 
feeling a little ill himself, “it—it was wonderful—I deeply 
appreciate—hadn’t expected such devotion— Oh,—I believe 
I’m under the weather too—I simply can’t talk about it any 
more.” 

“Yes—you need air. If you could go, now—” Stafford’s 
voice was full of entreaty, “and let me get to work—” 

“Yes, I’d best do that. I’ll come in again tomorrow.” 

The two men shook hands—a long silent hand-clasp—and 
a look almost of fear crept into Stafford’s eyes. “I swear,” 
he said, “that you shake hands exactly as he did. Do you 
know, sir, there’s nothing more revealing than a hand clasp?” 

“I suppose there isn’t.” faltered Boyd, adding with a poor 
attempt at a smile, “really I’ve never thought much about that.” 

Then, somehow, he managed to get out of the room. His 
longed-for day at his loved office desk had terminated. He had 
planned to put in eight happy hours, and he had stayed less 
than one hour. It had been a far more difficult trial than he 
had anticipated, and he was glad to get away. Stafford had not 
been fooled. He had known. The only redeeming feature of that 


REJUVENATED 


109 


interview was that Stafford did not realize how right he had 
been. Boyd dared hope that the worst was over—that Stafford 
would accept him, now—become accustomed to him—perhaps 
learn to like him so well, as he was, that he’d finally forget 
him as he had been. But it would take time. Stafford had a 
one-track mind. He must curb his own impatience in deference 
to that one-track mind. He would not try to hasten matters. 
He would not force his presence on Stafford, but would take 
possession of his old desk gradually—staying a little longer in 
the office each day. He felt that he’d do almost anything rather 
than discharge the man who loved him so unselfishly—so much 
more than anyone else he knew. His one true friend. 

But what was he to do with the spare time that this change 
in his plans forced upon him ? What did other young men do ? 
He wished he had joined some good club where he could now 
take refuge as his father’s son, and study the younger men 
with some of whom he must try to become fairly intimate— 
just enough to avoid criticism. He had never cared for games ; 
should he try to become interested now? And he supposed it 
really would be wise to pay some attention to girls. A young 
man who ignored girls—as he would prefer to do, would surely 
invite criticism. How he wished he might take up his life 
where he had left off one year ago, and have no reason to care 
a picayune what anyone said about him. Girls. He might try 
to talk to some girl over the phone, as he’d often heard the 
boys in his office doing. But who ? Certainly not Doris Marie, 
or Joe-Anne; but there was Clara Wilton—a nice girl—a fel¬ 
low could feel fairly comfortable with her. He might ask her 
to go to lunch somewhere—yes, that is what he’d do, and he’d 
do it that very day. 

A car had drawn up to the curb close to him, and its horn 
honked too close to his ear to be ignored. He glanced up to 
see Doris Marie regarding him with her most provoking smile. 

“Morning, Grandpa,” she said, genially, “want a ride?” 


CHAPTER IX. 


His first impulse was to refuse her invitation in a manner 
not to be misunderstood. He had no wish to take a ride with 
Doris Marie. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven her inso¬ 
lence of the previous morning, when he had terminated his visit 
at the home of her parents—an insolence that a man of his 
apparent age would undoubtedly have found intriguing, but 
which in his estimation was nothing more nor less than the de¬ 
testable impudence of an ill-bred youngster aimed at a man old 
enough to be her father. But he told himself quickly that her 
manners were characteristic of the youth of today—and that 
as he was supposed to be young, he must accustom himself to 
his environment; the manners of today would not be changed 
to please him, and he must have companionship. His old 
friends would be no more interested in him than in any other 
young fellow. This was a nice day for a ride—and he knew of 
no better way in which to get rid of the long hours he must 
spend away from his office. He climbed into the automobile 
and seated himself beside Doris Marie, and at that moment 
Clara Wilton passed—within six feet of the car. Doris Marie 
waved at her in an abstracted sort of way that was patently the 
most outrageous camouflage—as if she saw her and yet her 
appearance made no impression on a mind very much engaged 
—that was what the careless wave of the hand seemed to sig¬ 
nify. 

“Isn’t she coming with us?” demanded Boyd, who was al¬ 
ready repenting having so quickly forgotten his intention to 
invite Miss Wilton to take lunch with him. 

“Absolutely not,” replied Doris Marie decisively but cheer¬ 
fully, giving most of her attention to her brakes, however. 

“Miss Wilton has a very restful personality,” said Boyd, 
significantly, but without tact. 


110 


REJUVENATED 


111 


“You are not in need of a rest cure,” retorted Doris Marie, 
shortly, and now gave her undivided attention to the problem 
of driving her car through one of the most congested streets 
in the world, and breaking as many laws as possible without 
getting arrested. 

Boyd made no response to her retort. There was really noth¬ 
ing to be .said. He had made an ass of himself by his inane re¬ 
mark, and she had snubbed him as he deserved. He watched 
the girl curiously, wondering how she could manage the big 
car so competently with such tiny hands. She was a little thing 
—too thin to be really beautiful in his eyes—too much of a 
live wire to be a comfortable companion for anyone, yet in¬ 
teresting enough to be worth studying. It occurred to him that 
it might be amusing and perhaps profitable to study her, if 
one were not obliged to see too much of her. He could be¬ 
lieve that she would certainly help him to get in tune with his 
environment, if only he didn’t allow her to get on his nerves—, 
and why should he allow that ? A mere child, really. Why had 
he taken her so seriously that he lost his temper ? He suddenly 
thought of her genial invitation to take this drive—compared 
it with the crispness of her attitude when he left her father’s 
home, and wondered about the unexpected change; were all 
modern girls like that—an enemy one minute, a friend the 
next? The young people of his day had not been like Doris 
Marie, thank God. He recalled a saying of his little-boy 
days, “Doris was mad and I was glad, and now she is good and 
I’m not sad.” Well, it was satisfactory to realize that he had 
done nothing towards inducing her more genial frame of mind. 
He hadn’t coaxed her to treat him decently. She’d learn, if she 
saw much of him, that her tempers were of no more impor¬ 
tance to him than the antics of a kitten. 

For a long time they rode without speaking. Boyd was en¬ 
joying it. The steady purr of the engine was restful. It was 
delightful not to be obliged to make conversation with a silly 
girl. His mind had buried its worry for the moment. Even his 


112 


REJUVENATED 


office was forgotten. If only his companion would persist in her 
delightful silence, he could be really happy. It was a perfect 
day for the time of year, clear, sunshiny, crisp and cold, but 
the enclosed and heated car was exceedingly comfortable. No 
pleasanter way of getting rid of idle hours could be imagined. 
He decided that he’d be more sociable than he had been since 
his return. He’d excuse his apparent inattention to reciprocal 
obligations on the ground that he had been giving his best 
efforts to becoming acquainted with, reestablishing, his busi¬ 
ness. He’d make new acquaintances now—he promised him¬ 
self—he’d go about quite a bit, and try to find some really 
interesting friends among young people. Surely he could 
find a friend or two who would be interested in what interested 
him. There must be some who were not jazzy like those he had 
met at the New Year party. He preferred men friends—but 
there should be a girl or two—sensible, worth-while girls. 
There must be a few such girls left in the world. There was 
Clara Wilton for instance—and she had told him that Joe- 
Anne was really interesting when one became well acquainted 
with her. 

“One doesn’t accept all of Joe-Anne’s curious notions,” she 
had told him; “but one always wants to be among those pres¬ 
ent when she gets started to telling what she thinks she thinks.” 

He proceeded now to recall Clara with considerable definite¬ 
ness—to consider her more seriously than he had at all. He 
had enjoyed talking with her; why not see her frequently? He 
decided that he’d like to invite her out occasionally—he was 
quite sure she would accept—it would be much more satisfac¬ 
tory to ask some nice sensible girl like Clara Wilton to go with 
him, than to be annexed by some outrageous young flapper— 
as Doris Marie had just annexed him for this ride. Clara was a 
very sensible young lady. She would be easy to entertain, and 
she was not at all bad to look at. Of course he couldn’t devote 
himself exclusively to her without asking her to marry him. 
He understood that. Mrs. Palmer would be watching him— 


REJUVENATED 


113 


would finally ask his intentions—he knew how women man¬ 
aged such affairs! And he was determined that he would not 
be drawn into anything of the sort. He wouldn’t marry the 
best woman that ever lived. That is, if he could help himself. 
But could he? He realized that he was out of things—had 
never had social experience—would not be absolutely sure how 
to protect himself—he might get trapped! He might. Mrs. 
Palmer knew all the tricks. She didn’t want an old-maid sister 
on her hands forever. Mrs. Palmer might trap him. Well, if 
that happened—well—a girl of thirty-five was not so very much 
too young for a man of seventy. 

A man of seventy. A man of seventy who passed as a man 
of thirty—yet who couldn’t forget that he was seventy—who 
never would forget; he knew, now, because that fact had been 
driven home with cruel relentlessness by the uncanny change in 
his appearance. Before he had been made over, so to speak, he 
had never wasted time thinking how old he was. He didn’t 
care. He had always said that a man was no older than he 
felt. Wasn’t he? Was that opinion based on the attitude of 
the mind or the body? Certainly his old mind was constantly 
jeering at his young body—a body that he secretly admired, 
although it troubled him, because it constantly reminded him 
that he had passed his seventieth birthday, and was living a 
life of deceit, almost sinful in a man who had been a deacon 
in his church for so many years. 

Boyd suddenly awoke from his revery. He had somehow 
taken it for granted that he and Doris Marie were started 
for the country, but the car was being drawn up before a rather 
shabby row of houses in a rather shabby quarter of the city. 

“We get out here,” announced Doris Marie, briskly. “This 
is where we eat.” 

“I don’t see any cafe.” 

“A friend of mine has a studio in this building. We’ll lunch 
in the studio.” 


114 


REJUVENATED 


They had alighted and were going up the short flight of 
steps to the rather ornate, old-fashioned front door. 

“Does she know you are bringing a guest ?” 

“She is a he,” replied Doris Marie, “and he doesn’t care 
how many friends I bring. We always pay our share—divide 
expenses pro-rata, you know.” 

They were mounting what seemed like innumerable flights 
of stairs. The studio was on the top floor, and the building 
had no elevator. Boyd looked up the staircases, as they ap¬ 
peared before him, with something of dismay until he dis¬ 
covered that they didn’t tire him at all. His breath came even¬ 
ly—his heart gave him no anxiety—two steps at a time. That 
was just what his muscles had been crying out for. He was 
not taking sufficient exercise for a young man—he ought to go 
in for mountain climbing— 

“Damn! he isn’t at home.” Doris Marie had tried to open 
the door, and was now on her knees fumbling under the door 
mat. “Here it is,” she announced, producing a key. 

“Why do we break in,” asked Boyd; “there are other places 
to eat.” 

“No other place where I want to eat,” replied Doris Marie, 
crisply. “This is all right. Don’t worry, Grandpa.” She 
opened a door and ushered him into the studio. He wandered, 
something like a lost dog, to a convenient chair. 

“Hold on, there, Grandpa, you can’t sit down. Not yet. 
We’ve no time to lose. You’ve got to help get luncheon.” As 
she spoke, she had found a large bath towel, which she was 
now pinning around him for an apron. She found another 
for herself. She peered into various hiding places, and drew 
out material for the lunch. She communicated some of her en¬ 
thusiasm to him. As a little boy he had enjoyed picnics. This 
was like a picnic, except that it was held indoors. He wished 
they had been invited, however, and that their host were pres¬ 
ent. 

“You peel the potatoes,” Doris Marie directed, “then I’ll 


REJUVENATED 


115 


show you how to cut them into dice. I’m going to make potato 
stew. I’ll bet a dollar you’ve never tasted such good potato 
stew as I make—absolutely spiffy. Um-m-um-m-!” 

She set a small pan full of potatoes before him and gave 
him a potato knife. “Now get busy,” she ordered—“make it 
snappy. I put in one or two more potatoes than we’ll eat so 
there’ll be some of the stew left over for Dicky.” 

“Is this Dicky’s studio?” 

“Uh-huh. His baptismal name is Richard Graham.” 

“But what will he think—” Boyd snapped the question off 
in the middle. He had intended adding, “when he finds us 
here unchaperoned,” but it suddenly occurred to him that 
such a question would give her another opportunity to call 
him grandpa, and he felt as if he couldn’t hear that many more 
times without boxing her ears. But Doris Marie had not heard 
any part of his question. 

“I boil the potatoes,” she told him in a house-wifely man^ 
ner, as amusing as it was unexpected, “in the tiniest bit of 
water. It must be all boiled away when the potatoes are done; 
then I add cream and butter and pepper and salt—and there 
they are—delicious, and none of their vitamines have been lost. 
I’ll have scrambled eggs to go with them, and hot muffins and 
coffee. I can make the muffins while you are getting the 
potatoes ready. Guess I’ll make a few cup cakes, since we’ll 
have to heat the oven for the muffins, and we’ll open a can of 
apricots. Do hurry, because you’ll have to set the table.” 

“I’m not very handy at this sort of thing,” protested Boyd, 
who was now looking quite as uncomfortable as he felt. He 
was thinking how vexed he’d be if anyone broke into his house, 
and used his things as he was helping use those of his absent 
host, and he was worried for fear the absent host would ar¬ 
rive and find Doris Marie and himself there, unchaperoned. He 
felt that it really wasn’t a nice situation. 

“You’ll learn,” was the cheerful response, “I’m going to 


116 


REJUVENA TED 


give you every opportunity to learn much that you need to 
know.” 

“Is this sort of thing customary?” he cautiously inquired. 

“Coming here to lunch, do you mean?” 

“Uninvited—and—and” he was going to say unchaperoned, 
but wisely decided against that. 

“I do it whenever I feel like it,” replied Doris Marie. “Dicky 
and I were almost engaged not so very long ago. Now he pals 
with Joe-Anne.” 

“Well,” thought Boyd, “I may as well stop worrying. If 
Doris Marie gets talked about, it won’t be my fault. I didn’t 
bring her here, and I don’t know how to get her away.” Hav¬ 
ing thought this, he dismissed his anxiety on that score, and 
proceeded to make himself at home. And then he really had a 
fine time. Doris Marie proved herself an excellent cook, and 
he did justice to the meal she provided. She was enjoying 
herself so much that she forgot to call him grandpa, and while 
they ate she made herself so agreeable that she astonished him. 
He learned that she had actually read some good books, and 
could make curiously illuminating comparisons between them 
and the more modern literature that he did not consider worth 
reading. 

When the meal was finished Doris Marie decided not to 
wash the dishes immediately. “Let’s rest,” she suggested, “and 
perhaps Dicky will get here before everything is spoiled, and 
then he can help with the dishes.” 

She made Boyd sit in a big easy chair, then lighted her cigar¬ 
ette and calmly seated herself in his lap. 

“Want a whiff?” she asked, offering her cigarette to Boyd. 

“I do not,” he replied with emphasis. He was holding him¬ 
self very stiff and straight. He did not like the situation at all. 
Suppose Dicky did come in—unannounced— 

“No use asking you if you object to my smoking,” said Doris 
Marie, “because it is evident that you do—and I have no in¬ 
tention of giving up my smoke. Perhaps after you have 


REJUVENATED 


117 


smelled two or three hundred of my cigarettes, you’ll begin 
to long to try one yourself.” 

“I think you’d better—eh—take another seat.” Beads of 
perspiration were breaking out on his brow. He hated having 
her in his arms, but how could he compel her to get up? 

“Why take another seat? I’m not very heavy—especially 
for a big, husky fellow like you.” 

“Suppose Dicky, as you call him, should come in?” 

“Let him come. I’ve sat in his lap many times. He won’t 
faint. You see, he and I had to decide, as I’ve already inti¬ 
mated, whether we’d be willing to marry each other, and that 
always calls for petting parties. We concluded that our tem¬ 
peraments were too much alike to make it safe for us to marry. 
We’d have quarrelled like cats. Both very temperamental, 
you know, which means ugly when we are crossed.” 

Even as she spoke, steps were heard coming along the hall. 
Boyd wriggled with horror, and tried to spill Doris Marie from 
his lap to the floor, but she threw her arms about his neck and 
held on. Her face was bright with mischief. She enjoyed his 
embarrassment. 

“Hello, Dicky,” she said, quite casually, as the owner of the 
apartment stood at the door, looking in, “come on in. You have 
company.” 

“So I see, you darned little devil,” replied Dicky, grinning; 
“I suppose you didn’t leave any grub for me ?” 

“Plenty of everything. A little cold, but better than you’d 
get if you cooked it yourself. Mr. Graham, let me introduce 
Boyd Hunter. He can’t get up to acknowledge the introduc¬ 
tion; but he’d like to. In him you see my latest experiment.” 

“Don’t try to get up, Mr. Hunter,” said Dicky; “I know 
you can’t do it. D. M. sticks like a burr.” 

Doris Marie was busy exploring Boyd’s pockets. She drew 
out a half dollar which she threw on the dining table. “That 
will pay for our luncheon,” she said. “I make you a present of 
the labor I put into your share of it.” 


118 


REJUVENATED 


“Thanks. Do it often. You sure are some little cook, D.M. 
I’m sorry you and I couldn’t have hit it off better than we 
did.” 

“I’m not. I’d have had to cook all your meals—and that 
would not have pleased me. You’ll always be poor. Now 
Boydicum, here, is well off. He can support a wife as she 
should be supported.” 

“Is she going to marry you ?” asked Dicky of Boyd, and he 
made it sound as if such an intention on her part would be a 
calamity to her victim. 

“We’ve not decided yet,” replied Doris Marie, blowing 
smoke into Boyd’s ear. “I’d never marry any man for his 
money, but I’m praying that the man I choose will have money. 
Boydicum has some grave faults, but I’m hoping to have a 
lovely influence—” As she spoke she caught his hand firmly 
and drew his arm about her waist, then buried her head com¬ 
fortably in his neck. 

“Take my advice, Mr. Hunter,” interrupted Dicky, with 
mock solemnity, “and choke that girl into insensibility, then 
make a run for it, and don’t stop until you are half way 
round the world.” 

“You didn’t seem to find such measures necessary,—I mean 
the hasty trip around the world.” The two men looked at each 
other and grinned, and Boyd felt that he had found at least 
one young fellow with whom he could feel comparatively com¬ 
fortable. He suddenly succeeded in pushing Doris Marie off his 
lap, then stood up to prevent her from getting back again, after 
which he ambled about the room to keep out of her way, 
pretending to be interested in a collection of elephants on the 
mantel. 

“The hasty trip is what I should have been obliged to take 
if you hadn’t come to town,” replied Dicky with conviction. 
“Modern girls are as dangerous as hooch, more dangerous.” 


REJUVENATED 


119 


“Get out, Dicky! You know you’re lying. You like us— 
you’ve no time for ladylike girls; you never look at them, and 
you know it.” 

The two young people quarrelled about that. They seemed 
to think they were having a fine time. They chattered of 
trifles; they gossiped; they mentioned some of their friends by 
name who had decided to live their own lives—calling it ex¬ 
perimental marriage; they talked of companionate marriage, 
and the trials Sidney and Myrtle were having because of the 
God-awful narrowmindedness of the parents; they discussed 
sex as young people of Boyd’s day would have discussed 
toothache; they declared that anyone was a fool to work if he 
could live by his wits. It was disgusting to Boyd, and also 
puzzling. He couldn’t decide how much, if any, truth there 
was behind their nonsensical chatter, but he did know that he’d 
had enough of it. Why should he try to endure it? While 
they talked he edged toward the door, grabbed his hat and coat 
from the hat stand, and went out hastily, after remarking that 
he wouldn’t interfere with their visit,—as if that could excuse 
his unceremonious departure. Doris Marie called to him to 
wait, but he hurried down all the flights of stairs, and when he 
had reached the outer door, he dashed around the corner 
and into a narrow alley where an automobile could never fol¬ 
low him. He told himself that he had had as much of Deris 
Marie as he could stand, and any decent man would do as he 
was doing—cut and run! He didn’t care how angry she got, or 
what reprisals she might attempt. 

But when he had had time to think it over, Boyd regretted 
his haste. He wasn’t sure but he’d acted like a prim old maid. 
Perhaps he deserved to be called grandpa. Why had he felt so 
uncomfortable with a good looking girl in his arms? It didn’t 
hurt him to hold Doris Marie. Why should he have objected 
when she was so determined to sit in his lap? He hadn’t in¬ 
vited her to sit there. He couldn’t be accused of flirting with 
a girl young enough to be his daughter. She couldn’t possibly 


120 


REJUVENATED 


claim that he was forcing his attentions upon her. He was in 
no real danger—and, come to think of it, neither was she. Per¬ 
haps the people of his day had made too much of such matters. 
Perhaps it was better and safer to do one’s love-making in a 
crowd—at least, not to jump and run when caught at it, but 
just consider it as a matter of course. He didn’t know. He 
didn’t like silly demonstrations of affection—but perhaps he’d 
get used to holding girls on his lap—he might even come to like 
it when he’d had a great deal of experience. But now! well he 
would probably have to hear Doris Marie tell her friends how 
he had dumped her on the floor and run away—and she’d be 
sure to call him grandpa when she told that. What a good time 
she would have describing the episode—changing it where 
necessary to make it sufficiently dramatic to suit her fancy. He 
could hear her telling it. He could hear her audience roaring 
with laughter. She would call him grandpa. Grandpa! how he 
hated to be called that, and without doubt the other young 
people would follow the lead of Doris Marie. Damn the girl, 
he’d like to kill her. Grandpa! A dangerous nickname for him. 
It might so easily have been! He knew men of seventy who 
had grand-daughters old enough to be married. To be called 
grandpa made him uncomfortable because he felt that it was 
like giving the world a key to his secret. 


CHAPTER X. 


Joe-Anne had been summoned, by a frantic call over the 
phone, to a very important conference with Doris Marie— 
at least, she had been assured that it was so important as to 
be almost a case of life or death, and would Joe-Anne come 
a-running? 

“I’d have gone to you, dear,” explained Doris Marie, a 
few minutes later, “if I weren’t fighting this beastly cold. 
I’ve simply got to be well enough for that dance.” She 
was in her own room, attired in a negligee that couldn’t 
possibly protect her from any sort of cold, and her feet 
were immersed in a small tub of hot water. “Thought I 
might as well take this opportunity to get rid of corns,” 
she said; “my party slippers give me a new one every time 
I put them on.” 

“You never will wear civilized dancing shoes,” responded 
Joe-Anne, “and I can’t understand why not, when you’re 
so advanced along other lines.” 

“It’s my darned ugly feet,” explained Doris Marie, 
frankly, if not grammatically. “I’d give ten years out of 
my life if I had pretty feet like yours. You can wear any 
kind of shoe and look all right; and take it from me, Joe- 
Anrie,—no girl is going to stand very hard for any kind of 
reform that isn’t becoming.” 

“Needn’t count me in on that statement,” replied Joe- 
Anne, grinning cheerfully. “I stand for comfort first, last 
and all the time, and my sternest efforts shall always be 
directed toward making the thing fashionable that I want 
to wear.” 

“You crafty little devil,—you’re doing it, too,” admitted 
Doris Marie affectionately. “The way you got our bunch 

121 


122 


REJUVENA TED 


going around bare-headed just after I’d bought my most 
becoming hat—” 

“I look well in hats, too,” interrupted Joe-Anne,—“and 
my new hat is as nifty as yours; but any hat is a nuisance 
—and I’m not the only one in the bunch who looks much 
more attractive with a scarf thrown over the head—and 
think how much easier it is than holding a hat in your lap 
where hats are taboo; also think how much easier it is to 
keep one’s hair in curl. Besides, you can wear your hat— 
if you want to; there’s no law against it.” 

“Well, when no one else is doing it—and it is more com¬ 
fortable to leave it at home—” 

“For the same identical reason, boiled down and with 
proper fixings, you should adopt a comfortable dancing 
shoe, and stick to it through thick and thin—” 

“No good,” interrupted Doris Marie with conviction, “if 
it looked like a rag on a dog’s paw; I wouldn’t get one 
disciple. But I didn’t ask you to come here to talk shoes; 
I need help and counsel—” 

“Go away with you,” scoffed Joe-Anne; “you may need 
help, but you have no use for advice. I know you. What’s 
your latest plan?” 

Then Doris Marie told her of the luncheon in Dicky 
Graham’s studio, and how Boyd Hunter had run away, 
leaving her to go home alone. 

“Rather clever of him,” giggled Joe-Anne. “I wouldn’t 
have believed he could do it. He’s getting interesting.” 

“Not getting, but is,” amended Doris Marie. “He is abso¬ 
lutely different from the spineless young males that we’re 
obliged to pamper if we’re to have any boy friends at all; 
but I can’t afford to give him too much rope or he’ll get 
away from me.” 

“Dorie Marie, do you really plan to marry that man?” 

“I haven’t quite decided, yet; but I really think that is 
what I’m going to do.” 


REJUVENATED 


123 


“Are you falling in love with him?” 

“For Pete’s sake, Joe-Anne, don’t be mid-Victorian.” 

“Well, then, why? I shouldn’t care to live under the 
same roof with him, day after day—” 

“Why not?” 

“I can’t explain—but he doesn’t seem to me to be quite 
normal. He makes me shiver as if his hands were cold and 
clammy—” 

“But you know they are not, don’t you?” 

“Yes. I’m speaking figuratively. There’s something 
about him that gives me the willies. I suppose my aura 
fights with his, and that is why I don’t want him too close. 
I can’t bear to dance with him.” 

“I don’t believe you are in earnest. You are just work¬ 
ing up some new occult stunt. But if you do mean it, then 
you won’t mind helping me give my young man a jolt for 
the good of his soul.” 

“Let’s hear the plan.” 

“You see, he’s got to be punished for running away and 
leaving me—” 

“I don’t see why. You haven’t any strings on him, yet— 
and he knew you could drive your car home—” 

“He also knew he was leaving me in a position to be 
laughed at by Dicky Graham.” 

“Did Dicky laugh?” 

“Did he! You ought to have heard him. Of course I 
didn’t let him see that I minded—but you don’t want a 
fellow you’ve been going with a long time to know that 
another fellow—your latest—is trying to ditch you. I was 
humiliated—and so Boyd Hunter has got to pay. As long 
as he lives he’s never again going to do a thing like that.” 

“Why not let him go his way and you go yours? I 
wouldn’t waste time on any man who had to be punished 
before he could be tamed.” 


124 


REJUVENATED 


“And for that very reason you’ll never marry the man 
you’d like to marry. If I let Boyd Hunter go his own way, 
I’ll be sorry, because he doesn’t want to marry at all—and 
I’m thinking I may want to marry him. And I want to 
marry him because he doesn’t have any of the vices that I 
have myself—such as smoking and drinking, you know— 
and I really respect him more than any man I’ve ever met. 
I respect him even when he says such insulting things 
about the modern girl—because I know that he is more 
than half right about it. It’s like this, Joe-Anne; I don’t 
believe in love, but I know I could never live with a man I 
didn’t respect. I sure do respect Boyd Hunter.” 

“Then why try so hard to make him over?” 

“I’m not trying to make him over—just trying to rub off 
the sharp corners—so the bunch won’t laugh at him as they 
do.” 

“You believe they are criticizing a man who is better 
worth knowing than they are. Well, why not live up to 
your belief—why not make Boyd the fashion—get the 
others silly about him? That’s what I’d do if I wanted 
him.” 

“Yes, I believe you’d find a way to do it; but I’m not 
like you. I don’t want my man laughed at by anyone—not 
even by a monkey. He must be enough like the others 
we go with not to attract attention—and he must under¬ 
stand that he can’t trifle with me and be happy.” 

“Honestly, Doris Marie, don’t you think he might be 
happier if he had never seen you?” 

“No, I don’t. Boyd Hunter needs a home, and he is 
able to have one. He can give me what I want, and I can 
give him a home and a good social position—something 
he’d never on earth be able to get for himself—not with his 
inheritance and his lack of social training. If I were to 
shoot him into oblivion, for what he did to me—that is 


REJUVENATED 


125 


exactly where he’d spend the remainder of his days—in 
oblivion—and you know it.” 

“I don’t know anything of the sort. Your Aunt Clara 
would pick him up and give him much more than you have 
to offer. You know that, too, Doris Marie—and you are 
more than half jealous of her already.” 

“I think,” replied Doris Marie with cold fury, “that for 
one who professes to be my friend, you are going too far.” 

“I am not,” said Joe-Anne, imperturbably—“and I am 
really your friend; no ‘professes to be’ about it. And I say 
you’re likely to lose Boyd Hunter to your Aunt Clara 
if you drive him too hard. For that reason I am going to 
refuse to join you in your plan to punish him—and now 
I’ll go home and give you time to think it over.” 

Before the astonished Doris Marie could realize what was 
happening, Joe-Anne had left the room, and the house. 
And she did have time for thought, but her temper was 
still troubling her and she did not decide to give up her 
cherished idea of punishing Boyd Hunter, and thus bring¬ 
ing him to her feet. 

A long weary week dragged itself into the past. It 
marked the period in Boyd Hunter’s life when he acknowl¬ 
edged his loneliness. He had not been invited anywhere— 
nor had he succeeded in finding anyone at home when he 
had called. He who, in former years, had sneered at people 
who depended upon others for happiness, now admitted to 
himself that he was no longer self-sufficient. He felt home¬ 
less, hopeless and forlorn, and he wondered why he had 
ever thought life worth living. He was like a homesick 
little boy who wanted his mother. His condition appalled 
him, and he hadn’t the remotest idea how to better it. He 
decided that he must be the loneliest man in the world, 
and he didn’t know why. He realized that he had more to 
make life interesting than he had had two years before— 
yet at that time he had never thought of himself as the 


126 


REJUVENA TED 


loneliest man in the world. But then he had lived in his 
business, and now he could not do that. And when his 
business no longer absorbed him to the exclusion of every¬ 
thing else, he did not know how to find anything to take 
its place. 

Boyd went to his office every day, just as he had planned, 
but instead of staying there and perhaps working far into 
the night, he remained only a short time. And he was afraid 
his life there would never again be as it had been. He 
longed, yet feared to spend the entire day there. He feared 
Stafford, and also feared its effect on himself. He found 
that his efforts to act as if he knew nothing of a routine he 
himself had inaugurated were exceedingly tiring—and he 
could never feel sure that Stafford was fooled by them. 
No matter how faithfully he tried to feign the manner of 
the novice in the business—he could never spend an hour in 
that office without doing something—betraying some 
knowledge—that was not appropriate to his pretensions. 
Something was sure to happen that would not have hap¬ 
pened had he really been his own son, taking possession, 
learning the ropes. 

Most of Boyd’s associates marvelled at his surprising 
efficiency. They accepted him without question—said he 
sure was a chip off the old block—wondered how his father 
could have taught him so much in the comparatively short 
time they had had together—predicted that the business 
would jump ahead beyond belief when once he had gotten 
into his stride—and whispered that old Stafford would 
eventually be dismissed. He was too old-fashioned to suit 
a smart young fellow like the new boss. 


Stafford was as unhappy as Boyd was lonely. He was 
puzzled, too. He couldn’t understand why he should feel 
as he did towards the son of his old friend. Why should he 


REJUVENATED 


127 


so dislike the uncommon similarity between the young 
man and his father? Why couldn’t he be happy over the 
constant manifestations of a likeness so startling that it 
must have proven the relationship even had the son stepped 
into his father’s office without any introduction, except that 
of his personality? He had been devoted to the father. 
Why should he resent it that every move the young man 
made reminded him of his old friend? He asked himself 
that question a dozen times a day—and he could not find 
an answer. He found himself constantly watching for some¬ 
thing new to happen—something unexpected, and as unrea¬ 
sonable as it was reasonable—(that is how he phrased it)— 
and he never watched in vain. A turn of speech—the mis¬ 
pronunciation of some word—a movement of the hands— 
the way he walked across the room—the poise of his head 
when debating a question—the uncanny way he had of 
rushing to some pigeon-hole when deep in an important 
business matter, and pulling out a document the very exis¬ 
tence of which he couldn’t possibly have been aware. It 
was decidedly weird. It was enough to excite superstitious 
fear in any one except, of course, a hard-headed Scotchman 
like himself. And the views of the young fellow on the 
topics of the day! They were never coincident with those 
of his generation; he could be depended upon—if he said 
anything at all—to say exactly what his father would have 
said had he been living. It was actually as if the old man’s 
spirit had taken possession of the young man’s body. Staf¬ 
ford didn’t believe in such things, of course—he hoped he 
still had a little sense left—but there was hypnotism. He’d 
read something about hypnotism. Could the old man have 
hypnotized his son and have willed him to—to—live over 
again the life of the father—something like that? Could 
that be done? In such a case could the young soul ever be 
released? 


128 


REJUVENATED 


“What utter bosh,” whispered poor old Stafford, bring¬ 
ing himself up with a frown. “If I can’t shake off such 
crazy thoughts, I’ll be going to an insane asylum.” And he 
began to consider his position seriously. This thing was 
making him queer. How far would it go with him? Could 
he safely spend the remainder of his days in the office that 
he had once considered about the next thing to Heaven? 
It was beginning to seem rather more like purgatory— 
and for no reason that any sane man would accept. Ought 
he to get away—take a long rest? 

“I’ll have to resign,” he told himself, with a groan. “If I 
can’t control my feelings, I’ll have to get out. And then 
what? When I’ve left this place—why I’ve spent most of 
my life right in this office—I can’t leave. What could I do 
if I did leave? I’ll never find another job; everybody’d say 
I was too old. I couldn’t go on living with nothing to do. 
It would be the death of me. And I’m needed here. I 
really am. No one understands the business as I do—but I 
don’t suppose that young fellow would think so. He couldn’t 
know how much I mean to the business—he couldn’t pos¬ 
sibly—or, could he? Maybe he could. He’s enough like his 
father—I’ll bet he’d understand—the old man would never 
let me go—and Boyd is his father come to life again.” 

For the first time Stafford saw a reason to feel rather 
glad that Boyd was like his father. “Like as not he under¬ 
stands how I feel,” he said; “maybe, seeing it was his 
father, he wouldn’t mind my hating so to be reminded of 
the old man; maybe he’d be willing to give me time to get 
used to him—if I were to tell him how I feel about it.” 

But when Boyd came into the room and Stafford tried to 
tell him what he had planned to say, he couldn’t do it. He 
couldn’t find the words. It sounded too silly. Boyd would 
think he was going crazy. After all the young fellow was 
not to blame for being so like his father, and he couldn’t 
make himself over if he wanted to. Stafford realized that 


REJUVENATED 


129 


he had no right to object to the owner of the business com¬ 
ing to the office whenever he wished and remaining as long 
as he pleased. 

“I’ve just got to get used to him,” he said. “IVe got to 
pull myself together and act like a man of sense instead of 
an hysterical old woman. I’ve no business to let him scare 
me.” 

The word was out. Stafford had not meant to admit it, 
but he had said it. Boyd scared him. There was something 
so unnatural about the young man that Stafford couldn’t 
go about his work as usual when he was in the room. Worse 
yet, he didn’t want the young man to go behind him—not 
for a second. He always felt impelled to turn about and 
face him. He felt that he must know where the young fel¬ 
low was and what he was doing every minute he stayed in 
that room—as if he were someone not to be trusted. 

Boyd understood much that the old man was feeling, 
and Avas helpless in the face of such unexpected and inex¬ 
plicable worry. The only remedy he could think of was to 
give the old man more time to become used to him. And 
that left more dragging hours to be whiled away. He joined 
a class in the gymnasium. That helped. It gave his vigor¬ 
ous young muscles the exercise they needed, and he met 
one or two young men of his apparent age who, he hoped, 
might become his friends. At least, they might be a little 
friendly, if he could manage to do his part, and think as 
modernly as he looked. They did not belong to Doris 
Marie’s circle of acquaintances, which was in his favor 
since she could not prejudice them against him, and they 
were interested in politics, and civic government, and the 
business outlook, and listened quite politely to his views. 
They didn’t say much, but they were almost companionable 
and Boyd’s starved heart clung to the hope that in time 
they would really like him. He hoped they would never 
meet Doris Marie— 


130 


REJUVENATED 


Doris Marie. What was she thinking of him now? What 
would she do? Without doubt she was planning some 
punishment—but what could she do? If he kept away 
from her, as he was quite determined to do, how could she 
hurt him, as she had threatened? Perhaps he had acted 
like a fool—and of course she was angry—but what could 
she really do to him? Why should he give that jazzy girl 
a second thought? If only he knew how to make a few 
friends that he’d really like—but—God ! how lonely he was! 

The more Boyd thought of what had happened in that 
studio, the harder he found it to reconcile his actions with 
the Boyd Hunter he had always known,—poised, self- 
reliant, business-like, sensible, dependable—nothing hys¬ 
terical in his make-up. Why had he become so panic- 
stricken? The situation Doris Marie had created was harder 
on a girl than it could be on a man. Why had he run away 
like a silly bumpkin? What did he imagine could possibly 
happen to him? Why couldn’t he have kept his seat, and 
held her quietly and impersonally in his arms, as he would 
have held any other child who had climbed into his lap? 
He knew—though she did not—that the difference in their 
ages should have made that possible. But to dump her on 
the floor—and run like a scared puppy—leave her to drive 
home alone after having accepted her invitation to accom¬ 
pany her—what must she and Dicky have said about him 
when the door closed behind him! How they must have 
jeered! What a story they would make of it! Had they 
made it public yet? Boyd’s ears burned as he pictured 
the scene when Doris Marie, surrounded by her satellites, 
told the story, and he pictured it constantly. He told him¬ 
self over and over again that he didn’t care what they 
thought if only they’d let him alone—keep away from him 
—never speak to him again. And all the while he knew 
that he did care what they thought. He had always feared 
ridicule—and Doris Marie was an adept when it came to 


REJUVENATED 


131 


holding a foe up to the derision of her crowd. He must plan 
some way by which he might get even with her—for what¬ 
ever she meant to do to him—but could he? He really had 
little hope of that because he knew he’d never understand 
her game. Down in his shrinking heart he knew that he’d 
have to pay for what that damned girl was sure to consider 
an insult. 

He tried to forget her, but in vain. What would she do? 
How would she make him pay? If he could only guess 
that, he might forestall her. If only he had dependable 
knowledge of the modern girl—enough to give him a clue 
to her probable reaction—if only he had one friend in the 
city of New York to whom he could go for counsel! He 
thought of Clara Wilton—she would know. Without doubt 
she could help him. But she was the girl’s aunt, and she 
had been ignored when she might have gone riding with 
them—and what would one say to a girl like that anyhow? 
Ask her to give him a clue to the probable reaction of the 
flapper whose chosen escort had publicly expressed his in¬ 
difference to her, publicly advertised preference by refus¬ 
ing to enjoy a petting party, by unexpectedly and not 
gently dumping a pretty girl on the floor—and—and 
running away—like a frightened puppy? What would a 
girl like Clara Wilton reply to such a confession? Would 
she laugh and say Doris Marie was just trying to tease 
him? Was that what Doris Marie really was up to? He 
didn’t believe that. She hadn’t looked hilarious when he 
caught a glimpse of her face—just before he ran away. She 
was furious. There was no doubt of that. She hadn’t ex¬ 
pected to be dumped—thought she had him tamed—and 
she had fallen hard with one arm under her. Boyd remem¬ 
bered that she rubbed her hand, before picking herself up, 
and he also thought she was examining one of her fingers 
with some anxiety. He believed that Dicky ran to her 
assistance as he made good his escape. Perhaps she had 


132 


REJUVENATED 


put her finger out of joint—or would it be said that he did 
that? It might have been pain, not anger, that distorted 
her countenance. In that case, his position would certainly 
not be enviable. He was due to receive punishment. What 
would Doris Marie do to him? 


He was not kept long in suspense. One day, as he left his 
office to go over to the Buckingham Grill for his luncheon, 
he noticed two young fellows standing close to the door of 
the building. They nudged each other as he came out, and 
soon he realized that they were following him. But he 
paid little attention to that for the quick glance he had 
given them as he passed through the doorway told him 
that they were students. They were dressed as Indians— 
with ludicrously painted faces and a string of bright feath¬ 
ers hanging down their backs. They looked sheepish. They 
seemed to be accompanied by a bodyguard who directed 
their movements. Boyd believed they were being initiated 
into a new fraternity lately organized. 

When Boyd entered the grill the boys followed—and of 
course they immediately attracted attention. Men smiled 
tolerantly. They recalled the nonsense of their own college 
days. Boyd smiled, also. The boys did look funny. He 
seated himself in his favorite corner where he could see 
all over the room, and the boys seated themselves at his 
table. He intimated that he’d prefer to have the table to 
himself, but they appeared not to hear. They were gazing 
with soulful eyes at a table across the room. Boyd looked 
that way—and saw Doris Marie. She was seated at a large 
table, and many of her more reckless friends were crowded 
about her. She was paying no attention to him. Boyd 
shivered. He had a premonition that a part of his punish¬ 
ment was at hand—but he couldn’t imagine what it would 
be like. He started to leave his seat—thinking to go to 


REJUVEN A TED 


133 


some other eating house, but the proprietor accosted him. 

“We are so crowded today,” he said apologetically—“but 
soon I’ll be able to find you a seat to yourself—that small 
table over there—” 

“This will do very nicely,” replied Boyd stiffly. “Can you 
send a waiter at once? I’m in a hurry.” 

Suddenly one of the boys leaned toward his companion 
and sang in a loud voice that was easily heard above the 
hum of the restaurant life: 

“If a girl sat on your knee, 

Ah me! Oh, dear me! 

If a girl sat on your knee 

Would you dump that girl and flee? 

Would you flee? Would you flee?” 

He had a powerful baritone voice, and sufficient dramatic 
ability to appear as if he were asking a question of supreme 
importance to himself. When he ceased, there was a sound 
of clapping hands—here and there about the room. Doris 
Marie started the applause. It was silenced by a pleasing 
tenor voice raised in song. The other young man was 
replying, and the ferocity of his delivery was funny when 
contrasted with the sweetness of his voice. His enunciation, 
like that of his companion, left nothing to be desired. 

“If a girl sat on my knee 
Oh, gee! Believe me, 

If a girl sat on my knee 
I would dump that girl and flee 
I would flee. I would flee.” 

A wild burst of applause and much hearty laughter swept 
over the room. Boyd had tried his best to look unconcerned 
but Doris Marie was staring at him with an attentiveness 
that drew other eyes in his direction. Her eyes were bright 
with mischief, and the dancing dimples around her mouth 
made her adorable. Any man, seeing her, would be glad to 
follow her lead. Boyd felt himself growing red with 


134 


REJUVENATED 


embarrassment and indignation. How dared she subject 
him to public ridicule! What could he do to protect him¬ 
self? He wanted to leave the room. In all his life he had 
never wanted to do anything as he now wished to leave 
that cafe—since it was manifestly impossible to walk across 
the room and box the pretty pink ears of Doris Marie. But 
the boys were humming the refrain, ‘‘Would you flee; would 
you flee?” No, he could not leave the room. The waiter 
was serving him. He must remain and eat his luncheon. He 
must appear quite unconcerned and at his ease. But he was 
increasingly embarrassed, and showed it. The other diners 
realized that he was being teased, and that the students 
had not just happened to seat themselves at his table. His 
very evident discomfort added to their enjoyment, and they 
yelled lustily for an encore. The students were willing to 
oblige. They repeated the song and then sang a refrain 
in unison: 

“If a lemon you have won, 

Cut and run; cut and run. 

Don’t be a brave old son, 

When you don’t enjoy the fun 
Cut and run; cut and run, 

Cut and run, run, run.” 

The tune was catchy, the words easily memorized; the 
boys invited everyone to sing the chorus with them—and 
nearly everyone in the room accepted the invitation. Doris 
Marie and her companions led in the singing. It was to be 
noticed that they had no difficulty with either the words 
or the melody. Their evident enjoyment added much to the 
joy of the occasion. 

Boyd finished his luncheon, conscientiously swallowing 
morsels of food that had no taste and that almost choked 
him, and gulping down hot coffee like a wood chopper. 
Then he left the room with all the dignity he could sum¬ 
mon, knowing that his ears were scarlet, and that a sound 


REJUVENATED 


135 


of suppressed laughter followed him. He hoped that he 
appeared detached, indifferent, superior and bored—that 
was what he was trying for—but every nerve and muscle 
was clamoring to “cut and run; cut and run.” The boys 
were following him—still singing. A crowd collected about 
the boys and joined in the singing. Boyd turned toward his 
office—but he couldn’t walk even the few blocks with that 
shouting mob behind him. He signalled a taxi and was 
driven to his home. Doris Marie had shown him that she 
was abundantly able to mete out punishment. 

What would a natural young man have done, in his 
place? But that was unthinkable; such a man would not 
be in his place. A young man would have held the girl as 
long as she wanted to be held—and so would many old 
men—senile old fellows whose vanity would have been 
tickled,—and there’d have been no punishment. For the 
hundredth time Boyd Hunter asked himself why he was 
such an old jackass. 


CHAPTER XI. 


A few days later a letter was brought to Boyd with his 
breakfast. There were several letters, as a matter of fact, 
but this one in its beautiful thick cream-tinted envelope 
was first to claim his attention. He knew, at once, without 
opening it, that it was from Doris Marie, and he feared 
that it inaugurated a new torture. But when he had read it 
he was not so sure. He was puzzled. The letter was charm¬ 
ing. So far as he could see it contained no hint of a sting. 

“Dear Boydicum,” he read: “This is an invitation to 
the nicest party that will be given by our bunch this year. 
You mustn’t miss it. And to make sure that you will come, 
I’ll tell you that I have arranged for you to take Aunt 
Clara. I know she doesn’t get on your nerves as I do, and 
so she will help you have a really good time. I’ve been hard 
on you, I guess—but surely you are a good enough sport 
to acknowledge that you have brought some of your pun¬ 
ishment on yourself. You surely understand that no girl 
likes to be told, as openly as you have told me, that she is 
anathema in a handsome young man’s estimation. However 
I’m a pretty good sport myself, and if I’m anathema I’ll 
not be mad about it any more—but just make the best of it. 
Here’s my fist—metaphorically speaking. Let’s be good 
friends. I’ll save two dances for you—and I’ll be my most 
charming self between dances. Here’s hoping you and 
Aunt Clara have the best time ever. Enclosed find the 
formal invitation. Believe me, I’ve been a true friend to 
you, even though you don’t think so, and I hereby renounce 
all hope of annexing you as a husband. I’ll fix it up with the 
bunch, and you’ll not be annoyed. 

Ever your true friend, 

“DAMN.” 


136 


REJUVENATED 


137 


Boyd read the letter twice, and considered it thought¬ 
fully, to the exclusion of all other topics, while eating his 
breakfast. Should he go to that party? Could he trust 
Doris Marie? How did it happen that she could arrange 
for him to take Miss Wilton? He felt that he would have 
preferred to take the initiative in the matter. He should 
have been given an opportunity to invite Miss Wilton to 
go with him. It looked too much as if Doris Marie, notwith¬ 
standing her protestations, still regarded him as her prop¬ 
erty to be disposed of according to her will. He didn't like 
it. He didn't want to go to that party, and yet he was 
pleased to have been invited. He didn’t want to be ignored 
—and he was lonely—but he didn’t trust Doris Marie. Her 
note sounded too sweet to be genuine. He feared she was 
planning further humiliation for him, and he decided not to 
accept that invitation. Couldn’t he have a business engage¬ 
ment that would take him out of town ? That was the idea 
—a call to some other city—then, quite without warning, 
the ridiculous refrain of that offensive song drifted through 
his brain—“if a lemon you have won—cut and run, cut 
and run.” Of course Miss Wilton couldn’t be called a 
lemon—except by Doris Marie, who frankly considered her 
so—and he would be an unspeakable cad to place her in a 
position where some such intimation might be made in her 
presence. “Cut and run,”—no, he’d be damned if he’d ever 
again be caught doing that. He’d go to that party. He’d 
hold his own with the best of them. He’d show Miss Wil¬ 
ton what a desirable escort he could be when he had the 
companionship of a real lady. He wrote a note of accept¬ 
ance to the lady who was giving the party—wrote another 
to Miss Wilton expressing unbounded pleasure in the fact 
that he was to take her to the party, and wrote this to 
Doris Marie: 

“My Uncomfortable Friend: Your fist rests in mine— 
metaphorically speaking. Don’t forget that I’m to have 


138 


REJUVEN A TED 


two dances. I begin this evening to take dancing lessons, 
hoping thereby to make your task less difficult.” 


The looked-for night arrived. The ball room was beyond 
criticism—not too many flowers—no furniture—not a chair 
for any meddlesome chaperone or middle-aged wall flower 
—an absolutely perfect floor—plenty of cozy nooks for 
petting purposes—lights shaded almost to extinction— 
seductive music with no musicians in sight to mar the effect 
with the ceaseless gyrating of their obtrusive elbows. It 
was the apotheosis of distinctive simplicity—and the young 
people loved it because it made an effective background for 
their jazzy costumes and their bacchanalian dances. They 
never guessed it was a work of art. 

The hostess, too, was satisfactory in that she did not 
make herself too conspicuous, or in any way offensive to 
the modern young people who had so regally accepted her 
invitation. She gave of her hospitality freely, asking no 
return. She realized that there would be a majority of her 
guests who would not even take the trouble to thank her 
for a pleasant evening. She knew that they were quite 
likely to leave without a moment’s notice, in a body, and 
without a word of farewell if anything chanced to displease 
them, or some one happened to suggest some other place 
that offered entertainment more to their liking. She was 
considered a successful hostess because the young people 
frequently stayed until daylight, and then demanded break¬ 
fast that they might have strength for long auto rides to 
curious country taverns before presenting themselves at 
the parental doors. 

Boyd detested such orgies, yet he loved to dance. He 
had been born into a puritanical household where dancing 
was looked upon as a device of the devil, and he had so 
considered it until his rejuvenated body had brought him 


REJUVENATED 


139 


into social conditions that forced it upon him. His young 
body thrilled to the exercise. He had to admit that he loved 
to dance. He was glad he had taken lessons, and that he 
danced so well as to be pointed out as a desirable partner. 
He enjoyed dancing with Clara Wilton. She seemed to feel 
the spirit of the music as he did, and they moved together 
rhythmically. They really danced. They were about the only 
couple in the room who did dance, and they were sneered at 
as mid-Victorian by the young animals who hopped about 
the room like jumping-jacks, or slithered along like snakes, 
and who called mid-Victorian whatever they found impos¬ 
sible to emulate. 

But although he liked to dance with Clara, and wrote 
his name on her card for all the dances she would give 
him, it was not of her that Boyd Hunter thought when 
it was all over and he found himself too excited to go to 
sleep. He thought of the two dances Doris Marie had 
saved for him, and of which she did not deprive him, 
although it was a well known habit of hers to give a dance 
she had promised one cavalier to some one else who hap¬ 
pened to strike her fancy at the moment. 

“What is it about that she-devil’s dancing that is so in¬ 
toxicating?” he asked himself fiercely, and he knew that the 
word, intoxicating, exactly expressed what she had made 
him feel. And the word, she-devil, wasn’t so bad either. 
The very fact that one who was a she-devil most of the 
time could be as angelic and adorable as she had been this 
evening was all that was needed to prove its aptness. He 
told himself that she furnished the exception that proved 
the rule, when she elected to fascinate. 

What had she done that had seemed so charming? What 
had she said? In what way had she been so different? He 
did not know. All he could be sure of was that she had not 
exasperated him in any way, and that he could not forget 


140 


REJUVENA TED 


the two dances she had given him, and that he wished he 
might have had at least two more. 

As for the other young people—they were as if they had 
not existed. Neither had they exasperated him. In fact, 
come to think of it, they had left him pretty much alone— 
not ostentatiously but as if to them he did not exist. He 
believed they had been given their orders by Doris Marie, 
and that they obeyed. Further consideration of the evening 
revealed the fact that it had seemed to be taken for granted 
that he and Clara Wilton were in a class by themselves, 
and must not be disturbed or annoyed in any way. He 
suddenly realized that they had been treated pretty much 
as the older generation were usually treated by those of 
Doris Marie’s age. Then he saw that they had been left 
to themselves because they were not considered of suf¬ 
ficient importance to be treated in any other way. The girls 
were willing to dance with him because he danced well, 
but they were more than willing that he should return to 
Miss Wilton as soon as the dance was finished. He re¬ 
minded himself that that was exactly what he had wanted, 
and there was no reason for his momentary feeling of 
annoyance. They were letting him alone, and now he could 
look forward to a little peace. All he had asked was to be 
left alone—and it appeared that his desire was to be 
granted. He was definitely paired off with Miss Wilton, and 
everybody was satisfied. Everybody? He thought Miss 
Wilton was not dissatisfied and he was sure her sister was 
delighted—but how did he himself feel about it? Well, not 
exactly pleased, not as overjoyed as he should be. The rea¬ 
son? Why, that was obvious! He did not want to be 
paired off with anyone. That usually led to marriage— 
and he had no intention of marrying. He knew it wouldn’t 
be safe. His secret would be sure to be discovered by a 
wife. No, there was safety in numbers. He must keep 
away from Miss Wilton as much as he could, and try to 


REJUVENATED 


141 


become acquainted with other girls. He might find some 
one else whom he could take to places occasionally. Joe- 
Anne might accept an invitation and since she was by far 
the most interesting girl in her set, she ought to make an 
evening very enjoyable to her escort. If Doris Marie were 
always to be as she had been this evening, he would like to 
take her once in a while—especially to places where there 
would be dancing. He felt that he’d like to take her—if he 
invited her, and planned the evening; that must be more 
satisfactory than to be taken by her—like a tail to a kite. 

Finally he fell asleep—and dreamed of dancing with 
Doris Marie in a large room which they had entirely to 
themselves; and when they were tired, she sat in his lap 
to rest, and blew cigarette smoke in his ear, and he didn’t 
mind it a bit. 

Realizing that he must pay some attention to Miss Wil¬ 
ton, since she had been his partner for the dance, he sent 
her a dozen roses. Later, he called. Doris Marie chanced 
to be in the hall when he rang the bell, and so she admitted 
him, and invited him into the living room; then she excused 
herself, like a nice, polite, very demure little girl, and went 
to find her Aunt Clara. It was all just as it should be— 
just as he would have planned it himself—yet he wasn’t 
quite satisfied. He didn’t want to see much of Doris Marie 
—nothing at all, in fact, unless .she chanced to be in her 
adorable mood—but he hoped she would return with Miss 
Wilton. He felt that his call would be less embarrassing 
with both girls in the room—at least, that is what he told 
himself. 

But Miss Wilton came in alone. She was dressed in a 
simply made gown of old-rose crepe, and looked very 
attractive. Boyd was surprised to see how pretty she was 
—when not contrasted with the brilliant beauty of Doris 
Marie. Clara thanked him for her roses, one of which was 
tucked into her beautiful hair in exactly the place to be 


142 


REJUVENATED 


most effective. Boyd had always liked to see women wear¬ 
ing natural flowers in their hair, and wondered if he had 
^chanced to say so to Clara—or did she just happen to do 
the thing he liked? He felt comfortable with her,—very 
much at his ease—and he did not care whether they talked 
or not. It was nice, for once, to keep still and think. But 
when Miss Wilton talked of books and he discovered that 
he had read very few of the books she liked, he said so 
without embarrassment. He could not have done that had 
he been talking with Doris Marie. She always put a fellow 
on the defensive. 

“I presume,” said Miss Wilton, thoughtfully, “that where 
you were obliged to spend most of your life, the new books 
were not accessible—and after all you haven’t missed much. 
We waste hours on books that are not worth remembering. 
But you appear like a man who has read—and thought— 
you’re not a bit like the silly young man of today—if you 
don’t mind my saying so—” 

“I am honored,” murmured Boyd, then added, “but, do 
you know, I sometimes wish I knew how to be more like 
the young men I meet. I realize that there is a difference 
—yet I don’t know how to put my finger on it—how to 
describe it—analyze it—overcome my deficiencies—appear 
as young as—as my years. I wouldn’t know how to begin 
to make myself over.” 

“Why try to do that? What do you see in the modern 
young man that you would really wish to emulate?” 

“Well, for one thing—his self-assurance. For another, 
his adaptability—his power to please. I envy him his ability 
to enjoy life—to be satisfied with what seems to me of very 
little importance—because, you know, life is really made up 
of trifles, and if we value them are we not richer than we 
could be if we didn’t?” 

“Think of spending a life-time concentrating on trifles,” 
exclaimed Miss Wilton, with dainty scornfulness. “I can 


REJUVENATED 


143 


see you doing that! No, Boyd Hunter, if I could tell you 
how to make yourself like the young men of today, I would 
not do it. You are better worth knowing as you are.” 

Could any man desire a finer compliment? She had said 
it as if she meant it, too; it didn’t sound a bit like flattery. 
He felt that she understood him—that she appreciated him 
—that she would never jeer at him as Doris Marie did. 
What a wife she would make for a man who dared to marry! 
How comfortable a home might be with her as its mis¬ 
tress. If only he dared—might it not be safe—no, wait a 
moment! What could he say when, as they sat in that 
home alone, she asked him to tell her of his boyhood in the 
mountains of France—of his mother, how she died, where 
she was buried—and perhaps how she had lived after leav¬ 
ing his father. No, it wouldn’t be safe; he must never be 
lured into marriage. 

And so, since he knew he could never marry, why wasn’t 
it all right to see more of Doris Marie? See other girls, too, 
of course—but Doris Marie whenever he felt like it? It 
was true she was fearfully exasperating as a rule, but after 
all he supposed it did a fellow good to get riled up once in 
a while—kept his brain from becoming atrophied and 
made his blood course more rapidly through his veins. He’d 
been a good deal of a fool, thus far, in his relations with 
Doris Marie—but he was beginning to understand her 
better—he’d learn how to deal with her if he kept trying— 
and she was such a spicy little devil that it would be great 
sport to quarrel with her when he no longer felt that he 
was getting the worst of it. 

Doris Marie entered even as he was thinking of her, and 
with a guilty start Boyd aroused himself, and realized that 
his mind had travelled a long Way from the present hour, 
and his charming companion. He blushed with shame as 
he suddenly realized that Miss Wilton had been reading 
aloud and that he hadn’t heard a word of what she had been 


144 


REJUVENATED 


reading—something from Emerson—something rather 
prosy that she called exceedingly beautiful—and he hadn’t 
heard a word of it! What should he have done had she 
asked his opinion about that selection from Emerson— 
but she wouldn’t ask that now, for Doris Marie had entered 
—and she was looking positively dangerous. 

“Aunt Clara,” she said abruptly, “I’ve just heard that 
you’ve been warning mother against me, and I want you to 
know that I won’t stand for it.” 

“Why, my dear!” protested Clara, gently. “We have a 
guest.” 

“If he’s going to become one of the family,” said Doris 
Marie, “he may just as well begin to get acquainted with 
us.” 

It was Boyd’s turn to look uncomfortable. Doris Marie 
turned to him, her eyes blazing with resentment. 

“Aunt Clara told mother that if she didn’t watch out, I’d 
be having a baby before I was married.” 

“Doris Marie!” whispered poor Clara, who was too 
shocked for a more effective reprimand. She believed it was 
positively immoral to speak of a baby before it was born, 
especially to one of the opposite sex, and now her cheeks 
burned with maidenly shame. 

“And she’s got to stop such talk,” continued Doris Marie. 
“I won’t have mother worried when it isn’t necessary. It 
is hard enough for her, with her old-fashioned notions, to 
understand a daughter like me. But I’m not in half as 
much danger as you are, Aunt Clara, and not half as nasty- 
minded, either.” 

“Oh, please!” protested Boyd, looking every whit as dis¬ 
tressed as Clara. “You must realize, Doris Marie, that you 
are not only rude, but rather coarse as well.” 

“No, Grandpa, I don’t realize anything of the sort—but 
I rather like you for having the courage to say so. I’m 
neither rude nor coarse—I’m just honest enough to say 


REJUVENATED 


145 


what I think, while most old-fashioned girls think what 
they wouldn’t dare say. Now, I’m going to tell you exactly 
what happened. That day, when you dumped me on the 
floor, you put my finger out of joint.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” interposed Boyd. 

“It hurt like the mischief. Dicky pulled it into place, and 
I nearly fainted—” 

“I—I—what can I say—” 

“You needn’t say anything. It’s all part of the game.” 
Doris Marie giggled: “I really brought it on myself. But 
my finger hurt so that Dicky had to drive the car home, 
and he came in to get some of my candy. He saw me walk¬ 
ing across the room—kind of doubled up—my finger really 
did hurt, you know—and he told me that my form was 
getting all out of shape, and I ought to begin to wear cor¬ 
sets. And I replied that I wouldn’t do it, because women 
who never wore corsets had babies much easier than those 
who did. Aunt Clara overheard that and of course she had 
to think the worst, and so she went to mother and threw her 
into a conniption fit. I just won’t stand for it.” 

The artist in search for material for a cartoon would have 
counted himself in luck if he could have seen Clara and 
Boyd at that moment, for two more distressed looking 
mortals would be hard to find. Both were speechless, and 
red-f^ced—they kept their eyes averted, and they could 
not keep their fingers still, while they nervously crossed 
and uncrossed their legs in their attempt to appear at ease. 
And Doris Marie added her full share to the picture, for 
she was too genuinely angry to realize how shocked thev 
were. Her eyes glowed like lightning in a stormy sky, and 
she was intent upon her business of getting rid of her tem¬ 
peramental fit in one big explosion, and becoming comfort¬ 
able once more. She had no thought of the discomfort of 
her audience. “Prudes are always nasty minded,” she con¬ 
fided to Boyd. “Now there sits Aunt Clara calmly showing 


146 


REJUVENATED 


her knees, yet if I were to tell you that she has very 
pretty knees, with dimples in them, and that she ought to 
roll her stockings and show them—” 

Clara had hastily pulled her dress over her knees, and 
now quite as hastily sprang to her feet. “Oh,” she gasped, 
painfully distressed, “Oh, I am so ashamed.” She ran 
towards the door, which Boyd opened for her. 

“Don’t look so distressed,” he said, anxiously; “don’t 
let her worry you. You are all right.” 

He would have tried to say more, for he was anxious to 
comfort her, but she couldn’t face him. She felt outraged 
and humiliated, and she longed to get away by herself 
where she could recover her composure. 

“You are kind,” she faltered, then burst into tears and 
ran from the room. Boyd turned and looked at Doris Marie 
gravely and reproachfully. He opened his lips to reprimand 
her, but she interrupted. 

“Now Boydicum,” she said, “you’d better not try to say 
it. You don’t know what you want to say, anyhow. You’re 
not equal to the situation. You are a hundred years old. 
You are a mossy old back number, and you’ve evidently 
lived in a country that is next door to the dark ages. Boydi¬ 
cum, I wish you’d tell me about it—where you lived when 
you were a little boy, and how it happens that you are so 
frightfully different from every one I know. Of course 
you’re not so very different from Aunt Clara, although 
you are younger than she is — but none of the men 
I know, who are your age, are such awful old maids 
as vou are. Now be a good boy and tell me how come. 
Please.” 

But Boyd had become wary and reserved. He sensed 
danger. He guessed that Doris Marie was going to allow 
herself to become charming, and he wanted to see her 
again in that mood,—but if that meant trying to invent a 
few lies about his boyhood— 


REJUVENA TED 


147 


“I think I’ll be going,” he said gravely: ‘Tm not in the 
mood for reminiscences.” 

“No,” scoffed Doris Marie, “you’re just too fearfully 
shocked to survive. A spade has been called a spade right 
before your shrinking little soul, and you’re in for a ner¬ 
vous breakdown.” 

“For the sake of peace,” replied Boyd, with his most dig¬ 
nified manner, “allow me to admit the truth of your accusa¬ 
tion—and take my departure. And will you forgive me if I 
add that you have strange ideas of hospitality? You have 
spoiled what would have been a most enjoyable afternoon 
—in your determination to humiliate your aunt.” 

Doris Marie rushed to the door and turned the key, 
which she then appropriated. 

“You don’t leave this house,” she said, furiously, “until 
you get my point of view. Aunt Clara had mother worried 
to tears. Do you think I’m going to stand for that?” 

“It is evident to me that your aunt has been and is 
honestly anxious about you. I am not surprised. I’m sure 
she did not mean to make trouble—” 

“Why can’t she keep still about matters of which she 
knows nothing? I’m far better able to get on in the world 
—safely—than she is, because she goes about with her 
eyes shut and screams when she runs up against something 
that she doesn’t like. I keep my eyes open, and I’m not 
afraid.” 

“You think yourself very wise,” interrupted Boyd, “and 
therein may lie your danger. No one person could possibly 
know as much as you think you know—and live. You’re 
like a baby playing with dynamite. If you were my daugh¬ 
ter, I’d—” 

“Your daughter!*’ giggled Doris Marie, “your daughter— 
and I’ve been thinking of myself as your wife. Boydicum, 
you must be harboring the soul of old Methuselah. You’re 
absolutely the oldest man of your age this world has ever 


148 


REJUVENA TED 


known. You ought to be on exhibition. Here; take the key 
—no, I’ll unlock the door. Go home; you make me tired.” 

Before he could say a word in protest, Doris Marie had 
unlocked the door, rushed swiftly from the room without a 
word of farewell, and was running lightly up the staircase. 
There was nothing left for him to do but obey her and go 
home. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Disappointing days drifted into weeks of humiliating 
memories. Slowly and painfully Boyd Hunter was fitting 
himself into his new life, and never once was his task made 
easier by the belief that it was worth while. It seemed to 
him little more than a disagreeable necessity born of a 
loneliness that he despised as much as he feared. Why 
should he, Boyd Hunter, fawn at the feet of a set of nin¬ 
compoops, when he longed to discuss important questions 
with men of his own age?—Fate had indeed played him a 
cruel trick. 

In his determination to act as young as he looked. Boyd 
had frequently neglected his business in favor of some 
social demand, and that had helped him with Stafford, who 
was gradually and grudgingly becoming accustomed to 
his presence in the office. But he knew, now, that the old 
man would never accord him the love and respect—the won¬ 
derful devotion that had been given him before his re¬ 
juvenation. It was a loss that he’d always regret, for Staf¬ 
ford had been the one friend who understood him, and who 
had loved him in spite of his faults. Nor could Boyd get on 
intimate terms with any of the men who had been his old 
business friends. They were kind to him because they be¬ 
lieved him to be the son of his father—but they resented 
his trying to match his business experience with theirs; 
they would not admit that a man of his apparent age could 
be as right as they were about anything, and they would 
not forgive faults in him that they had taken for granted 
—smiled at as an eccentricity—less than two years ago. 
They took the last drop of joy out of life, in so far as he was 
concerned. He could not take his life up at the point where 
he had changed it, and he could not succeed in being as 

149 


150 


REJUVENATED 


young as he looked. He was living proof of the power of 
mind over matter,—that power that is more often dele¬ 
terious in its manifestations than it is beneficial. 

Winter had passed. It was April—and spring was having 
its way with him—not with the senile satisfaction of age 
warming itself in the sunshine—but filling him with long¬ 
ings that could only add to his discomfort. It had made 
him realize how very desirable a real home would be— 
a wife—perhaps children—why not? After all, was there 
any real reason why he should not marry? Had he not been 
over-cautious in his anxiety to guard his secret? Curiosity 
concerning him was dying down—he was accepted as the 
son of his father—his friends understood that he simply 
would not discuss his past life or his parents—and they had 
about ceased questioning him. He was finding it much 
easier to think as a man of his apparent age would be 
expected to, and other young men no longer avoided him 
as conspicuously as they had when he first came among 
them after his regeneration. There had been a few instances 
of late, when he had so thoroughly enjoyed himself at a 
party as to have actually forgotten for an entire evening 
that he was not what he seemed. Those experiences were 
delightful. He believed they were coming more frequently. 
He dared look forward to a future when his years between 
thirty and seventy would be practically blotted from his 
memory, and he would really feel and act and think as 
young as he looked. Then why not do as any other man 
of his apparent age, and in his financial position would do— 
why not marry and establish a home and become a leading 
citizen? The very thought was alluring. He would play 
with it for a little while. 

In case he decided to marry, whom should he ask to 
become his wife? The question should be easy, for of all 
the girls he had met, there were only two whom he could 


REJUVENATED 


151 


possibly consider at all in that relation—Clara Wilton and 
Doris Marie. 

He now began to consider them seriously, not as a young 
man would, but with all the intelligence of his seventy- 
year-old mind. He did not know that either girl would 
accept him, but he felt pretty sure that Miss Wilton would 
not say no. He was also sure that Mrs. Palmer would be 
better pleased to receive him as a brother-in-law than as a 
son-in-law—but he was convinced that she would offer no 
serious objection to him in the latter relationship. In fact, 
he could count on her help in either case. She had been a 
really good friend to him—the best friend he had ever had, 
in spite of her persistent efforts to control him, and he now 
admitted that he rather liked her. He wanted her to con¬ 
tinue his friend. But he often wondered what she would 
say about that if she found out—she was not of the tem¬ 
perament to enjoy being hoaxed—and he believed she 
could hate vindictively. 

Clara would be nearly ideal as a wife and mother and 
home-maker,—yes, and as a daily companion. She had a 
fine mind, well stored, and she was a good conversational¬ 
ist. She was never tiresome—not even when airing her 
religious convictions. She was rather narrow-minded in 
the matter of religion. So was Mrs. Palmer. They were 
botff good church members. He realized that they were 
glad to know that Boyd, the father, did not divorce his 
wife—and they were sure that Boyd, the son, was made 
equally happy by that fact. (Of course his wife was dead, 
but where and when and under what circumstances she had 
died, he had never been able definitely to ascertain.) Boyd 
brought himself back with a start. He must control his 
thoughts better than that. He must return to the present. 
He must forget the past—put it entirely out of his mind. 
He must return to his thought of Clara Wilton as his wife. 
She was deeply religious, and duty was her watchword, 


152 


REJUVENATED 


and custom was her little earthly divinity. What would be 
her reaction—if she ever learned his secret? Suppose they 
had lived together for several years—and there were chil¬ 
dren—and their home life had been happy—and then she 
had learned his secret? What would happen? What would 
her religion drive her to do? What would be her DUTY? 

Another thing: Could he be able to live with her even a 
year without telling her of his past? She’d feel that it 
was her right to know everything about him. She was like 
that. Perhaps she would not even marry him without being 
told—something. Would the story he had manufactured 
pass muster. Would she ask some question, suddenly, catch 
him at some unguarded moment—become suspicious be¬ 
cause of his evasive reply—nag and nag until she had 
wormed the truth from him? That would be like her. That 
would be exactly like her, as he read her. She would be 
the type of wife who felt that she must own her husband, 
body and soul. And she would make public the story of his 
past—the story he manufactured and told her and which 
she would undoubtedly accept at first. Her love for him 
would make that story seem very romantic. She would tell 
it to her sister and to her best friends. She would want 
them all to know of the romantic past—the terrible loneli¬ 
ness of this fine man who had been obliged to grow up with¬ 
out any home life, without the care and guidance of a loving 
father. How she would dwell on the thought that he had 
been cheated out of a father’s love and protection by a 
selfish mother, who had wished to keep him all to herself 
—cheated out of a natural home life. But she, Clara, his 
wife, would make that all up to him, and all their world 
should know how nobly she was fulfilling her mission. And 
all the time she really would be doing her best, and even 
when she got on his nerves—as he knew she would with 
her self-imposed missionary work in his behalf—even then 
he would know that she was a hundred times too good for 


REJUVENATED 


153 


him, and he’d never be able to forget that he had not been 
honest with her. 

No, the more he considered Clara as a wife—the more 
clearly he saw the dangers of such an alliance. He had 
been more or less aware of this all the time; now his care¬ 
ful deliberation convinced him that he must put her out 
of his mind once and for all time. And when he had 
decided to do this, she immediately assumed an importance 
in his imagination that he had not hitherto accorded her. 
He recalled a dozen little intimate conversations—many of 
them made delightful by her openly expressed belief in him 
and his wonderful possibilities, and more especially by her 
approbation of the stand he took on questions of morality. 
She delighted in him especially because he was not like the 
modern young men of whom she could not approve. His 
outlook on life was so much more stabilized. He was a 
man whom one could look up to—lean upon—be proud of. 
She did not say all this in so many words, and as if she 
already possessed him—but in a hundred ways she said it— 
and he was always so pathetically glad to hear it. He knew 
it wasn’t true—but he was in need of the feeling of justifi¬ 
cation it gave him—it was something to be living a life 
that led a good sensible girl like Clara Wilton to say such 
things about him. It would be wonderful to live in an 
atmosphere of admiration—what couldn’t it help a man to 
become! How any decent man would try to deserve it! 
And—when all was said, didn’t he really deserve something 
of that sort? He had done nothing in all his life to hurt 
anyone. He had been the one to be hurt—and he had not 
complained—just gone on and done the best he could. He 
had not hurt anyone—except himself—when he had so fool¬ 
ishly consented to be rejuvenated. And he did not see how 
he could have met the resulting conditions any more wisely 
than he had. He had suffered more than he deserved. To 


154 


REJUVENATED 


live with a sweet and amiable girl who found no fault with 
him— 

Commonsense once more came to the rescue. It simply 
would not do. She would find out all that he was trying to 
conceal—and then she would no longer approve of him— 
there would be the very devil to pay. Better the burdens 
we know than those we know not of. 

What of Doris Marie? He believed there was less chance 
of her accepting him; to be sure she talked a great deal of 
him as a future husband, but it was always in a way that 
was mystifying, and often most exasperating. He had never 
been able to decide what she was really thinking about it. 
He had never considered her seriously as a wife—he really 
could not do so now. Always something came up between 
them that made him realize how old he really was. He knew 
that he was old enough to be her grandfather, and frequent¬ 
ly she talked as if she knew it also; but he felt sure she 
never guessed how nearly she was hitting on the truth. But 
she had not ceased to appropriate him since their first 
meeting—not even when she appeared to so magnani¬ 
mously pass him over to her Aunt Clara. 

He didn’t believe that Doris Marie would nag, as Clara 
would, until she had wormed out the inmost secrets of his 
past life; indeed, she often said that no married partner had 
any right to ask questions, after the wedding ceremony, 
about the other partner’s past. And as a point of fact, he 
didn’t believe Doris Marie would pay much attention to 
anything, after marriage, except as it might influence the 
building up of a life together that should be exactly in 
accordance with her wishes and desires. Doris Marie be¬ 
lieved in living in the present with a wary eye on the 
future. And if her future was not imperilled by whatever 
she might learn as to his past, he did not believe she would 
borrow any trouble about it. He could even imagine her 
finding amusement in visualizing the annoyances that had 


REJUVENATED 


155 


followed his regeneration. His wife? Mary, the wife of his 
youth? He didn’t believe Doris Marie would give her a sec¬ 
ond thought. She would probably decide that if the woman 
were not already dead, she ought to be, and anyhow she 
was as good as dead—and that was that! 

What would life be like with Doris Marie his wife? They 
seldom agreed, they frequently quarrelled, and he often left 
her hastily because he feared, if he stayed, he’d box her ears 
or shake her, or perhaps even spank her. She made him 
angry enough to do almost anything. Yet he couldn’t seem 
to keep away from her for any length of time; a word of 
commendation from her was worth more than a volume of 
praise from anyone else, and she seemed to dominate his 
thoughts whether he saw her or not. 

“She goes to my head like wine,” he thought; “I could 
never consider this matter carefully if she were near. I 
must make up my mind, before I see her again, whether or 
not it would be wise to try to win her.” 


And at that very moment Doris Marie entered the room. 

“You haven’t called for a week,” she complained, “and 
Aunt Clara is wretched; so I thought I’d come over and 
see if you were sick.” 

“No, I am not sick.” 

“So I see.” 

“Won’t you be seated?” 

“Of course. I’ve come for a long talk.” 

“A long talk? I’m flattered.” 

“Are you? No spoofing, Boydicum.” 

“Yes, I really am flattered. You’ve been avoiding me of 
late, you know.” 

“Yes. I’ve been playing the game,—giving you every 
opportunity to know Aunt Clara. I’m here to talk about her 


156 


REJUVENA TED 


—I’m asking you what your intentions are—if you under¬ 
stand what I mean.” 

She grinned impishly, as she said this, and yet Boyd was 
given to understand that she meant exactly what she said. 
She had grinned because she had used an old-fashioned 
expression that amused her. 

“I know what you mean,” replied Boyd, frigidly, “but I 
don’t—” 

“I know,” interrupted Doris Marie, “you don’t recognize 
my right to ask the question—standing on your dignity— 
all that sort of thing. But the fact is, I feel responsible 
because I really let Aunt Clara in for all she’s going 
through.” 

“I—I—must confess—that now I don’t understand—” 

“If I had not stepped aside, as I did, voluntarily—Aunt 
Clara could never have gotten you away from me.” 

“You’re sure of that?” He actually managed a sneer that 
a stage villain could have envied. 

“Absolutely. Not because of anything you might have 
done about it, but because I should have made a row that 
would have sent Aunt Clara to the bow-wows. My family 
stand in awe when I get down to business. And they’ve 
themselves to thank for their punishment because they have 
always let me have my own way.” 

“One can see that—and of course you take advantage—” 

“Not as much as you’d expect, Boydicum—really. I’m 
pretty decent about it on the whole. Of course when I 
believe that what I want is reasonable—perhaps better for 
all concerned—” 

“As it would have been,” interrupted Boyd, sarcastically, 
“had you clung to your fancied right in me—” 

“Boydicum, are you going to ask Aunt Clara to marry 
you ?” 

“That is an impudent question. I do not acknowledge 
your right—” 


REJUVENA TED 


157 


“Uh-huh; you’ve as good as answered it. You are not 
going to propose to dear Aunt Clara. And she is going to 
feel horribly hurt if you don’t.” 

“I don’t believe it.” Boyd was almost violent as he said 
that, possibly because he felt that Doris Marie was telling 
the truth. “You should not talk like that about your aunt. 
Think how she’d feel—” 

“I do. That’s what brought me here. I don’t want her to 
feel any worse than she is feeling now, and she would if 
you went on with your philandering—” 

“Stop it. You shall not malign me—” 

“You’d call it philandering if anyone else had rushed a 
girl as you’ve rushed Aunt Clara—and then all of a sudden 
stopped inviting her anywhere. Now, can’t you see how I 
would have saved her a heart-ache if I’d kept you from 
paying attention to her?” 

“You, yourself, arranged for me to escort her—” 

“I know it,” admitted Doris Marie. “I was wrong about 
that, but I thought you ought to have an opportunity to 
find out for yourself whether she suited you. You remember 
how you wanted her to be invited to go with us to Dicky’s 
studio? You let me see that you really wanted her when 
you had me. Well! Am I to blame for thinking you and she 
might discover that you suited each other? No, sir, Mr. 
Mam, you can’t lay the blame all on my shoulders.” 

“I do not admit that I have done anything to be ashamed 
of.” 

“I think, myself, that you’re not to be blamed so very 
much, because you really had to have some opportunity to 
find out where you stand; but here’s what I have against 
you; I believe you have known for quite some time that you 
didn’t want to marry Aunt Clara and didn’t intend to. Why 
not be a sport and ’fess up?” 

“Honestly, Doris Marie, I never asked myself that ques¬ 
tion until today. I had just decided, when you came in that 


158 


REJUVENATED 


it would not be right to pay her too much—I mean, to—to 
—invite her—” 

“Do you know,” interrupted Doris Marie, “I should not 
be able to believe what you’re telling me if I didn’t know 
how very stupid you are. You can’t seem to see one little 
inch before your rather pointed nose—when it’s a question 
of girls. That’s why I decided to come over and set things 
right. Aunt Clara is going to feel all cut up about it— 
that can’t be helped—but if it went any farther she would 
feel a great deal worse, and that can be prevented.” 

“I’m desperately sorry about it, Doris Marie. I’m hoping 
you are not right about it—that—that she—she doesn’t 
really care—” 

“Oh, of course she cares—not that you are such a won¬ 
derful catch, you know, but you are practically her last 
chance. How could she help being disappointed?” 

“Do you think I ought to—to propose marriage—that she 
has a right to expect that?” 

“I thought of that way out myself. I thought you and 
she might be engaged a little while—just to save her face 
—and then you could stage a big quarrel and break it all 
off; but she’s so queer I don’t believe she’d let you pick a 
quarrel with hen—once she was engaged to you. She be¬ 
lieves that to give one’s promise means that it must be kept 
forever and ever, and she wouldn’t break an engagement a 
bit sooner than she’d apply for a divorce. I decided that 
wouldn’t really be a way out.” 

“Well, then, what can I do?” 

“You and I must announce our engagement.” 

“Announce—wh-a-at ?” 

“You heard. I’m not a repeater. We will announce our 
engagement tomorrow. That won’t prevent Aunt Clara 
from having a heart-ache, but she’ll realize that the sooner 
she forgets you the better. Her pride will help a lot, too. 
She has an immense amount of pride. And as I’ve already 


REJUVENATED 


159 


told you, she’ll get over it much more easily than she would 
if it had gone on any longer. Besides she’ll have to wonder 
if you and I had not been interested in each other all the 
time—and if she hadn’t sort of butted in. She’ll be a little 
ashamed of herself, I hope, because that, with her pride, 
would help her keep a stiff upper lip.” 

“But,this—this engagement—between us—is it to be a 
sort of trial engagement—to be terminated when Miss Wil¬ 
ton has—” Boyd meant to add, “recovered from her heart¬ 
ache,” but he could not have finished the sentence had it 
meant a million dollars to him. He was ashamed. 

“No,” replied Doris Marie, thoughtfully, “I think it must 
go farther than that or Aunt Clara won’t believe in it. 
She’ll think I just butted in, and she’ll go to mother about 
it, and there’ll be one big family row. A mere engagement 
won’t do. We’ll have to get married.” 

“Married! You don’t mean that, Doris Marie.” 

“I most certainly do. You see, I do not feel as Aunt Clara 
does about divorce. We can be divorced as soon as we like 
after Aunt Clara has got over her crush on you.” 

“But listen. I do not believe in divorce. You’ve got to 
consider me—” 

“I don’t know why I have. I’m not to blame because you 
were too stupid to see that you were winning the affections 
of a nice girl who had no reason to think you were not in 
earnest. I’m doing this for Aunt Clara’s sake and if you 
have a smithereen of manhood in your make-up you’ll play 
up. You can’t help seeing that I’m proposing the only way 
there is to save the situation.” 

“Do you think,” asked Boyd faintly, “that we’d find 
divorce an absolute necessity? Might we not manage to get 
along together—make a happy home—” 

“Maybe,” replied Doris Marie, carelessly; “you never 
can tell. And of course we won’t apply for a divorce if we 
don’t want one.” She was looking about the room as she 


160 


REJUVENATED 


spoke and without a moment’s pause she asked: “Would 
you expect me to live in this house?” 

“I should be glad if you would so decide; but of course I 
should not insist.” 

“It would cost a lot to bring it up to date,” said Doris 
Marie, “but it could be done. It is such a large house—but 
in one respect that would be an advantage. I should want 
several rooms set aside for the children.” 

“For what children?” asked Boyd, stupidly. 

“For ours, of course. Did you imagine I was thinking of 
running an orphan asylum? I expect to have five children, 
not that I’m crazy about that number. I want four—but 
I’ve heard that one child dies in nearly every family, and 
if we have to lose one we’ll still have four.” 

Boyd found no reply to this. He was too amazed for 
speech, as who would not be. He had not before realized 
how much of a child she was, underneath her veneer of 
sophistication. 

Doris Marie had arisen and was drawing on her gloves. 
“My car is at the door,” she said. “You needn’t go home 
with me; but you’d better come over in the morning. I’ll 
tell the folks tonight, and tomorrow we’ll announce our 
engagement. We’d better make it short. I think we may 
as well be married in about four weeks.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Boyd Hunter did not sleep well that night. He was prob¬ 
ably the most astonished man in the city of New York. 
Once again his wheel of life had been given a twist that he 
had not expected. Could it be true that he was actually 
engaged to be married—or had he been dreaming? He had 
played a little with the thought of marriage—had almost 
reached the conclusion that he’d like to marry—had won¬ 
dered if it would be safe to marry Doris Marie—yet he 
really had not believed for a moment that he’d actually 
propose marriage to her—or anyone else. Except for a 
brief period, he had declared he never would marry again 
—never, and he meant it. He knew he ought not to do it. 
And he fully realized, now, that such a step would be dan¬ 
gerous for him and unfair to Doris Marie. But what was 
he to do about it? He had not asked her to marry him. She 
had settled the matter as calmly, yet as dictatorily, as if she 
had been playing with one of her dolls. She had ignored 
him—except as a necessary actor in her new play. She had 
not cared whether he liked her proposition or not—she had 
simply declared that they would be married in a month— 
and it looked very much as if the wedding would take place 
unless, of course, he could take some drastic step to pre¬ 
vent It. But what could he do—except to run away, and 
that he most certainly could not do. No matter what the 
difference between them, Doris Marie always won. What 
could he do, now? He might as well sit back and take the 
gift the gods—and Doris Marie—had handed him. 

Which meant he w T as not much longer to live alone. He 
was going to be married. He was engaged to be married to 
Doris Marie. To pretty, saucy, wilful little Doris Marie! 
The thought sent a delightful thrill along his spine, and 

161 


162 


REJUVENATED 


his heart danced, and skipped beats, and raced excitedly, 
and seemed to stand still—exactly as any good healthy 
young heart might be expected to do. A pleasant glow 
spread all over him, and somewhat to his surprise he heard 
a low laugh of pure content that he knew must have issued 
from his own lips. In spite of the dangers he had been 
fearing—dangers that he must live in fear of all the rest 
of his life—in spite of—everything—he was happy. It was 
great, it was wonderful, it was thrilling, to be engaged to 
Doris Marie. 

She had intimated that tomorrow the preliminaries would 
all be arranged. She would attend to everything; he had 
only to play his part when his cue had been given him. He 
wondered what would be expected of him. The modern girl 
was so different from any girl that had ever before been 
known, that an old-fashioned man, who had given his whole 
life to business, could not be expected to understand, with¬ 
out being told, just how to play his part. Of course he 
would take Doris Marie a box of candy—also a box of flow¬ 
ers—and he’d do that because it was what he had done 
when he courted his first wife, and it was the only way he 
knew to show his joy in the fact that a desirable girl had 
agreed to marry him. But when he thought how that 
engagement had been brought about, he smiled somewhat 
cynically, and wondered if he would’t better appear wear¬ 
ing a dog harness, and present her with a little whip. 

“After all,” he said to himself, quite reasonably, “why 
lay it all to Doris Marie? It couldn’t have happened—at 
least I think it couldn’t—if I hadn’t been willing. While 
I’d have preferred to arrange it all myself—yet I’m well 
pleased, on the whole. We’re engaged, and if she isn’t 
satisfied, she has only herself to blame. And she will see 
it that way, too. Doris Marie is a good little sport.” 


REJUVENATED 


163 


Boyd made his appearance at the Palmer home at the 
appointed hour, and was met at the door by Doris Marie. 

“Kiss me,” she commanded, holding up her painted lips. 
Boyd didn’t like to touch them with his, and so deposited a 
reluctant kiss on her cheek, which was thickly powdered, 
but not sticky. “M-m-m,” grunted Doris Marie, “it is evi¬ 
dent that I’ve got to teach you how to kiss.” 

“Rub that nasty stuff off your lips,” suggested Boyd, 
“and perhaps I can do better.” 

“Oh, so that’s it! Well, I’ll think it over—decide which 
I prefer—your kisses or my lip-stick. Come in here—‘will 
you walk into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly—daddy 
stayed home from the office purposely to take his allotted 
part in the solemn conference; just as if what he could say 
would make any real difference.” 

The two men shook hands as if they had not met in 
years. Mrs. Palmer put her head on Boyd’s shoulder and 
did a good imitation of grief—the accepted reaction of the 
loving mother about to lose her baby daughter. Doris 
Marie took it all in with sparking, mischievous, knowing- 
eyes, and grinned impudently, favoring Boyd with an elab¬ 
orate wink, which she thought her parents did not see. 

“My boy, I’m surprised,” began Mr. Palmer, with what 
he hoped was the emotion the occasion demanded, and he 
wiped his nose with emphasis to finish the sentence. 

“But not displeased, I trust,” murmured Boyd, conven¬ 
tionally. 

“Not a bit displeased,” responded Mr. Palmer heartily; 
clearing his throat as if for speech making, “in fact. I may 
say—” 

“Make it snappy, Dad,” ordered Doris Marie; “he’ll take 
for granted all that son-of-my-dear-old-friend stuff. What 
Dad wants to know, Boydicum, is how much money have 
you ?” 


164 


REJUVEN A TED 


“Doris Marie,” shrieked Mrs. Palmer; “Oh, Pm so 
ashamed of you/’ 

“You needn’t be. Boyd and I are going to be absolutely 
honest with each other right from the start.” 

Boyd cringed guiltily, realizing just how honest he was 
with her. He tried to cover his embarrassment by thrust¬ 
ing into the hands of Doris Marie the tokens of love he had 
brought with him, and which he had been awkwardly 
holding as if he hated to part with them. 

“Flowers? Very pretty; but you needn’t bother to bring 
flowers except when we’re going somewhere. Candy? 
Mother, dear, you take the candy. Thanks, Boydicum, but 
after this you’d better bring me cigarettes. Candy makes 
me fat.” 

“To get down to facts,” interrupted Mr. Palmer, watch 
in hand, “I’m due at the office, you know,” apologetically, 
“and it isn’t as if you were a comparative stranger—and— 
and to get down to facts—ahem—” 

“I am at your service,” murmured Boyd politely, but 
how he longed to strangle his old friend, for making this 
absurd fuss when he knew as much as anyone needs to 
know about his finances. 

“Mere matter of form,” said Mr. Palmer. “Of course, as 
your father’s legal adviser, I know that the business was 
doing well—all your affairs were in good shape—when you 
stepped in—” 

“My affairs are still in good shape,” interrupted Boyd 
somewhat more icily than the case required. “Why should 
you have any doubts about that?” 

“Oh, I haven’t—I really haven’t, you know,” replied Mr. 

Palmer hastily— “but—ahem—you—you must realize_ 

ahem—that you’re not sticking to the business as closely 
as your father did—” 

“That is not necessary. He was building it up. It prac¬ 
tically runs itself, now—” 


REJUVENATED 


165 


“No business runs itself long—without running down,” 
replied Mr. Palmer, gravely. 

“It is not running down. It is in good shape—and I may 
know more about it than you think I do.” 

“Undoubtedly. No criticism intended—just a word of 
warning—your dear father would have understood. I’m 
sure—” 

“Would he?” Boyd's lips curled cynically, but he quick¬ 
ly controlled his temper, realizing the danger. “Oh, well,” 
he added, “I’ll get into the harness in time. We have a 
well-organized staff, you know, and there’s Stafford, who’s 
been with us from the start, and who knows the business 
from A to Z—” 

“I’ve been told that Stafford was going to leave—or 
you’ve discharged him—or something. What about it?” 

“Stafford going to leave!” Boyd’s voice held genuine 
astonishment. “First I’ve heard of that,” he added, “and 
of course it isn’t true.” 

“Glad to hear it—very glad. He’d be a great loss. Don’t 
let Stafford get away from you. Well—that’s about all—ex¬ 
cept the conventional ‘bless you my children’ and now I 
must be off.” He dabbed a pecking kiss on his wife’s cheek 
—gave his daughter another, shook hands all over again 
with his future son-in-law, and hurried away as if he’d 
been caught in a crime and believed the police were after 
him. He was glad that job was over. It was silly at best— 
and quite unnecessary—but Mrs. Palmer had insisted— 
she’d got to have everything done as it was done in stories, 
or make a scene. And Doris Marie had humored her— 
except when her mother chanced to oppose her. He knew 
very well that his daughter had quite made up her mind 
to marry the young fellow—and nothing he might have 
learned about his finances would have influenced her one 
way or the other. He had caught the wicked wink she had 
bestowed upon Boyd when she brought up the subject of 


166 


REJUVENATED 


finances, and understood its meaning. He knew Doris Marie 
perfectly. She would argue that if Boyd hadn’t enough 
money to take care of her, she could persuade her father 
to put up the remainder. Why not? What else were fathers 
for? And wouldn’t she have it all when her parents passed 
away? 

“My baby sister was suddenly called away,” vouch¬ 
safed Mrs. Palmer when her husband had disappeared. 
She was preparing to serve tea—not because anyone wanted 
it, but because she believed it was the proper thing to do. 
She delivered the news with tears and a look of reproach. 
She wanted Boyd to realize, without being told, that he 
had given everyone to understand that he meant to pro¬ 
pose to Clara, and that he had caused the dear girl intense 
suffering. She wanted to rebuke him for that, even though 
she had just accepted him as her prospective son-in-law. 

“Now Mother,” expostulated Doris Marie, severely, “do 
show a little sense, and keep still. Understand? Keep 
still. You know that is what Aunt Clara made you promise 
to do.” 

Boyd’s discomfiture increased by leaps and bounds. He’d 
have given fifty dollars to take his hat and leave—but at 
that moment a line of that detestable song ran through his 
mind: “If you do not like the fun, cut and run; cut and 
run.” He’d never be able to forget that. Had Doris Marie 
known it, she had done more than anyone else had ever 
done to make him stand and face a disagreeable situation. 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Palmer with exaggerated dig¬ 
nity, “you will serve the tea yourself. Since I am ordered to 
keep my mouth shut, I may as well leave the room,” and 
she did. 

Doris Marie giggled. “Of course,” she said, “you’ve 
guessed all that mother could have told you—but it’s much 
better not to let her say it. She’ll be glad I shut her up 
when she gets over being huffy. Now everyone can pre- 


REJUVENATED 


16 7 


tend that you never dreamed Aunt Clara cared for you— 
and that will make things slip along like an elephant on 
ice.” 

“You were right to interpose,” said Boyd heavily, “and 
I’m infinitely obliged to you—but I do think you might 
have used more tact. You need not have told your mother 
to shut her mouth.” 

“I had to do exactly what I did do. It takes courage, 
promptness and vigor to get mother’s mouth shut when 
she’s all wound up to spill something. And the less said 
about Aunt Clara’s heartache, the better for all concerned— 
as I’ve already intimated. Now come over here and sit by 
me. We’ll get cozy and comfy and talk. We’ve got oceans 
to talk about. I simply adore making plans.” 

She pushed him into a corner of a davenport so magnifi¬ 
cently stuffed that he felt as if he’d never be able to pull 
himself to the surface again—then threw herself across his 
knees, rested her head on the arm of the davenport, and 
lighted a cigarette. “Now,” she exclaimed, “we’re all set. 
Let’s go. First, about our wedding trip. Thought anything 
about that?” 

“Why no,” confessed Boyd; “I haven’t had time, have 
I?” 

“You might have done a little planning after I left you, 
last night; but never mind, I have it pretty well planned.” 

“Yes?” 

“To begin with, we’re not going to spend a lot of money 
on our honeymoon. It’s going to cost so much to make 
that old house over that we must save on the trip.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you are inclined to be 
economical?” 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“It surprises me very much.” 

“Are you pleased?” 


168 


REJUVENATED 


“I think I am. I am not a very wealthy man—although 
we shall have enough to make us comfortable.” 

“Well, I’m not exactly economical. I don’t like throw¬ 
ing money on one thing that might be spent to greater ad¬ 
vantage on another. I like to spend money, I’m simply 
crazy about it—but—I like to know that I get value re¬ 
ceived.” 

“How did you learn to spend money—and get value 
received?” 

“Oh, I’ve had an allowance since I was seven years old. 
I made such a fuss that daddy just had to give me one—■ 
and after he began it he was glad, because he saw I spent 
it sensibly. When I knew he ought to increase my allowance 
I simply insisted—and I always got the increase. I’m 
going to do that way with you.” 

“How much are you going to insist on my giving you?” 

“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to look over your books, 
first, and find out how much you can afford to give me. I’d 
never want more than you could afford—but believe me, 
neither would I accept any less.” 

“All right; we’ll try to be fair.” 

“Now about our honeymoon. Let’s go on a long auto¬ 
mobile trip—riding every day until we find a nice place to 
stop, where we can meet people, and dance at night. And 
we’ll make our first stop at a place I know in the Adiron- 
dacks. I have a friend staying at a camp there, and she 
can’t get a drop of hooch for love or money—” 

“Did you say hooch?” 

“Yes, hooch—and she writes me that she is simply dying 
for a cocktail. Her parents are Drys—strict as strict—and 
they won’t have any kind of liquor in the house—that is if 
they know it. It has been in the house very frequently, 
just the same.” Doris Marie giggled as she thought how 
her friend’s parents had been hoodwinked. “Dicky and I 
went up there once and took her some—and we nearly got 


REJUVENATED 


169 


caught, too. It was terribly exciting. Think what a scream 
it will be for us to hide a nice little case of hooch in our 
car, and take it to her on our wedding trip. We’ll have to 
outwit the hi-jackers—and there’ll be some real excitement, 
believe me.” 

Boyd could hardly believe the testimony of his own ears. 
For a moment this child had shown herself so wise and sen¬ 
sible and lovable—so everything that any man could de¬ 
sire for a wife—and then to suddenly spoil it all by plan¬ 
ning to break one of the laws in which he was particularly 
interested—and, too, on their wedding trip. He’d have to 
assert his authority sooner or later; might as well begin 
now. She must understand that, while he was willing to 
please her whenever possible, he meant to be master in his 
own house, and he had no intention of becoming a law 
breaker, or of allowing her to become one. 

“You must know,” he said firmly, “that I believe in pro¬ 
hibition ; also that I obey the laws of my country, and 
that I expect my wife to do so, as well. There’ll be no 
liquor carried in my car—ever—nor will my wife carry 
liquor about the country if I can prevent it. Please under¬ 
stand that.” 

Doris Marie straightened herself, and looked him in the 
eye, a mischievous quirk at the corners of her lips making 
them adorable. 

“Do you mean all that, Boydicum?” she asked, “or is 
it just a gesture?” 

“I mean it—absolutely,” he replied sternly. 

“What would you do if I didn’t obey you?” 

“I can’t tell until that happens. I sincerely hope I shall 
never be obliged to meet that difficulty—but you may be 
quite sure that I shall be able to find some way to prevent 
my family from becoming lawbreakers.” 

Doris Marie sprang to her feet and stood facing him— 


170 


REJUVENATED 


eyes blazing, lips mutinous, chin up, the picture of indigna¬ 
tion. 

“Would you do anything,” she demanded, “to spoil my 
nice honeymoon?” 

“Not if I could help it—and keep my self respect.” 

“Every woman should plan her own honeymoon—have it 
exactly to her liking. Don’t you know that, you great big 
booby ?” 

“Not when she elects to become a law breaker,” replied 
Boyd firmly. He was finding the scene trying, but he felt 
that his future happiness depended upon his carrying it 
through according to his beliefs. 

“Law! Piffle! Who cares about the law?” 

“I do.” 

“Not really,” taunted Doris Marie; “you are only afraid 
you’ll be caught.” 

“You can put it like that if you choose.” 

“Well, I’ll never be bossed like a slave—not by any one. 
I give you warning.” 

“Then we’ll consider our engagement broken.” 

Boyd’s voice \yas low, restrained, firm. There was a tone 
of finality in his last remark that said even more than the 
spoken words. He was almost glad to have the engage¬ 
ment broken. Doris Marie was impressed. This was a new 
experience—to have any plan of hers vetoed, and not be 
able to budge her opponent in the slightest degree. She 
saw that she was beaten, that he was not enthusiastic on 
the marriage question—and she did not intend to let him 
break their engagement. The mutiny died out of her eyes, 
and she became reflective, and when Doris Marie assumed 
a meditative air she was simply adorable. 

“After all, why spoil all her plans,” she was thinking, 
“just because a friend needed a drink.” 

“Well,” she said finally, “I suppose it is only fair that you 
should have your way some of the time. I’ll be sporting 


REJUVENA TED 


171 


about it. We’ll cut out the hooch in the honeymoon auto.” 
She spoke reasonably and without a hint of pique. Seating 
herself beside Boyd, she took his hand in hers and rested 
her cheek against it. “I hadn’t guessed it, Boydicum,” she 
said, “but you’re some cave man. Bully for you! Now let’s 
go on with our planning, beginning where the hooch sug¬ 
gestion balled up things. Lean over, old cross-patch, and 
we’ll kiss and make up.” 

“Can’t you get some of that stuff off your lips?” asked 
Boyd, who was beginning to realize that, after all, he 
needn’t be quite as much like a dog in harness, as he had 
believed himself to be. 

“I’ll try, just this once. If I don’t think it’s worth while, 
I’ll keep the lip-stick and cut out the kissing.” She was 
energetically rubbing her lips with her pocket handker¬ 
chief between sentences. “You know a man’s lips are 
horrid when he is not freshly shaved, and some men will 
kiss with their nasty wet teeth. I notice you’re inclined that 
way. Now stoop over and I’ll show you how it ought to be 
done.” She showed him, and he was really enjoying it, 
when her mercurial nature again asserted itself. 

“That was nice,” she said, “but enough is enough. I 
adore petting parties, but not too long continued.” 

“We’ll agree as to that,” replied Boyd, quickly—a little 
too quickly, Doris Marie thought, but she decided not to 
make a point of it, although she felt that he should be told 
that he erred quite offensively in not making an exception 
of petting parties with her as the other party. 

“Now,” she began, in her most businesslike manner, “it 
is time for you to go—and we’ll manage the farewell with 
out any kissing.” 

“Angry with me?” asked Boyd a little anxiously. The 
question pleased her. It showed that he really hadn’t meant 
anything personal but was finding fault with petting 
parties as usually conducted. 


172 


REJUVENA TED 


“Not a bit, Boydicum,” she responded warmly. “In fact, 
I love you more, this very blessed minute, than I ever be¬ 
lieved I could. All the same, I want you to go now, because 
Joe-Anne is coming and we’ve got a raft of things to talk 
about.” 

“Are you going to talk over our engagement—so soon?” 

“Of course; isn’t she my best friend? And what fun 
would there be in being engaged if one couldn’t talk it 
over ?” 

Boyd’s thoughts flew back to his first engagement, and 
Mary’s desire to keep it secret as long as possible, because 
it was too sacred to be talked over like any ordinary oc¬ 
currence. He liked the old way best—but of course he 
couldn’t say so. His silence did not pass unnoticed. 

“Don’t tell me, Boydicum, that you want to keep our 
engagement a secret, else I shall think you are hoping for 
a chance to back out,—and I assure you, dear boy, you 
haven’t a chance.” 

“Don’t be coarse,” snapped Boyd, and took his leave, 
without another word, leaving a most astonished girl be¬ 
hind him. 

And he was equally astonished. Why should he have 
flared up like that? Doris Marie had said nothing that 
might not have been expected of her. Hadn’t it offended 
him more than usual because he had been thinking of 
Mary and the days of their courtship? Mary had been so 
very dear! So maidenly and winsome and reserved. How 
proud he had been of her—how afraid he’d hurt her feel¬ 
ings! What would she have said if, in the early days of 
their courtship, he had commanded her not to be coarse. 
But that couldn’t have happened, because she never was 
coarse. How different she had been from the modern girl! 
How infinitely more desirable! 

But was she? He hadn’t been able to keep her. She had 
left him, without warning, and he had never heard from 


REJUVENATED 


173 


her again. What had happened to her? How he wished— 
no, he did not wish to know how she had managed to live. 
It was enough for him to know that she had preferred to 
live away from him. Mary may have been very sweet and 
docile in appearance—much more so than the modern girl— 
but not even Doris Marie could treat him worse than Mary 
had treated him. He was glad Doris Marie was not like 
her. He would never again be fool enough to make silly 
comparisons. He was sorry he had told Doris Marie not 
to be coarse. He would send her a large box of her favorite 
cigarettes—and he hoped she would forgive him. 

Cigarettes! Cigarettes instead of roses and bon bons! 
They really did not seem like a fitting expression of affec¬ 
tion. Cigarettes! How about gloves? He had never seen 
Doris Marie wearing gloves. Probably she’d prefer silk 
stockings, or some undies, or a box of rouge. 

Cigarettes for the girl one hopes to marry! Bah! 

His thoughts drifted back to that never-to-be-forgotten 
day, more than thirty years ago, when he had returned to 
his home carrying a beautiful little work basket—a birth¬ 
day gift for his wife, only to learn that she had left him and 
had no intention of returning. The sun left his world with 
the reading of her contemptuous letter. He had never 
guessed that she was not as happy in their home life as he 
had been. Thinking it over in the long lonely evenings that 
followed, he recalled many incidents that should have 
warned him, had he not been so immersed in his business. 
She had told him in her farewell letter that business was his 
god—that he cared much more for his office than he did 
for his home, that she refused to stay at home alone and 
keep house for a mere machine, when she could go back 
into the business world herself and make as good a living 
as he could ever provide, and that she could provide for 
herself and still know the joys of companionship—which 
he did not provide. He was young, with his way to make in 


174 


REJUVENATED 


the business world, and he felt that he must give his busi¬ 
ness the best of himself until he got it well on its feet. 
But he had wanted to do that, primarily, in order that his 
wife should be provided with everything that so wonderful 
a wife deserved. It was after she left that he really did 
make his business his god, and earned many of the hard 
criticisms that were aimed at him during the years that 
followed. Now, he told himself, now he would do different¬ 
ly. He would neglect his business, if necessary, to make 
Doris Marie happy. This doubtful experiment in domestic 
happiness should be turned into most satisfactory attain¬ 
ment. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“Well,” inquired Joe-Anne, tossing her hat and coat on 
Doris Marie’s bed, “what’s on your mind? Why the pathet¬ 
ic cry for companionship?” 

“Joe-Anne,” very solemnly, “I’ve done it.” 

“Done what? Murdered Boyd Hunter?” 

“I’ve promised to marry him.” 

“Oh, I rather hoped you’d, murdered him. But perhaps 
this will be sufficient. And of course a promise of that 
sort needn’t make you unhappy for any length of time. It 
never has, has it?” 

“I didn’t think you’d be quite as cruel as—as you—oh, 
Joe-Anne, why can’t you be kind to me?” Doris Marie was 
close to tears, and immediately Joe-Anne dropped her air 
of raillery. 

“Why my dear!” she exclaimed, “you are not really in 
earnest, are you? Stop crying, this instant, and tell me— 
are you actually going to marry Boyd Hunter?” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand 
for ever and ever so long,” sobbed Doris Marie; “and you 
are the very first to be told of my engagement—except dad 
and mother—and I did think you’d be interested.” Doris 
Marie was wiping the tears from her eyes, and looking an¬ 
grily at her damp handkerchief. “Nothing in this world 
makes me so tearing mad,” she said, “as to bust out crying.” 
Smiles chased the tears away as she laughed over this last 
slangy remark. “Bust is right,” she added; “I didn’t 
know I was going to dissolve like that. I never have be¬ 
fore when I’ve gone and got myself engaged. But some¬ 
how this is different; it seems to clutch at my heart.” 

“Is that because you are in love?” asked Joe-Anne, hope¬ 
fully. 


175 


176 


REJUVENATED 


“How many times must I tell you that I do not be¬ 
lieve in love. I respect Boyd more than any man I’ve ever 
met. But he takes everything so seriously that I feel more 
bound to go through with it than I have felt with the other 
men—and I think that frightens me a little. No girl likes 
to lose her sense of freedom—” 

“Nor does any man, I fancy,” interrupted Joe-Anne. “If 
we could read Boyd Hunter’s mind, about now, I think 
we’d find that he is feeling nearly as uneasy as you do.” 

“I’ll bet he is,” replied Doris Marie, candidly; “he hasn’t 
acted any of the time as if he were crazy to get married to 
anyone.” 

“I believe,” said Joe-Anne. thoughtfully, “that there 
are cases where a man and woman do not weep because 
they are no longer free when they have agreed to marry. 
They realize that each is necessary to the completion of the 
other, and they can’t be happy until they are united. That 
is love. That means happiness in married life. I shall 
never marry until I find the man who will make me feel that 
way about him, and who will feel that way about me.” 

“As I’ve said before, Joe-Anne, you’ll never be married. 
You think as your grandmother was taught to think—and 
the people of our grandmother’s period put the divorce 
court on its feet. If they had realized that each was neces¬ 
sary to the completion of the other, there couldn’t have been 
any divorces.” 

“Being human, they made mistakes; but they must have 
been awfully happy while they believed themselves to be 
in love.” 

“And spent their time telling pretty lies to each other. 
None of that for me, thank you! I believe happiness must 
have absolute truth for its foundation, and Boyd and I 
are starting out with that fact in mind. There are to be 
no evasions, no secrets, no form of camouflage between us. 
Consequently there can be no disagreeable surprises.” 


REJUVENATED 


177 


“But why do you want to do it? That’s what I can’t 
understand. What do you expect to get out of it that is 
really worth while? You have everything a girl could 
possibly want, now, and you are free—and if you wait, you 
may find real romance—” 

“There you go again. Joe-Anne, you’re incorrigible. 
Listen; this is what I want—what you will never have 
unless you stop looking for a fairy prince to come along. 
I want to be mistress in a home of my own. That’s a form 
of independence that you can’t have in your father’s house. 
I want to invite my friends without having my list criticized 
and curtailed. That’s a form of independence you can’t 
have in your mother’s house. I want children. You can’t 
have them without you are married—as custom now dic¬ 
tates—and give them any desirable social relationships. I 
hope to live long enough to see the unmarried mother recog¬ 
nized—if she is a good mother and brings up desirable 
citizens; but at present marriage and a husband and a home 
are necessary. So, I’m acquiring them, and I’m making as 
careful choice as I know how. So far as I can judge, Boyd 
Hunter supplies all the requirements—and I believe I shall 
be as satisfactory as wife, mother, housekeeper and social 
companion as anyone he could find. And he really needs 
what I can give him, because he couldn’t possibly get it for 
himself. His training has made him so old-fashioned that 
he simply doesn't know how to place himself.” 

“Well,” sighed Joe-Anne, “you’re doing it. And it really 
does look as if you knew what you were up to. So here’s 
hoping you’ll be very happy. Now what can I do to help 
the good work along?” 

“Can’t you think up something different in the way of 
announcements? I’ve had my engagement announced so 
many times that I’m all out of ideas; and you are so good 
about planning stunts that are out of the ordinary.” 


178 


REJUVENA TED 


“You might surprise the world by not making any an¬ 
nouncement, just run away and be married—” 

“Oh, Joe-Anne, you wouldn’t have me do that. Why I 
want all the frills there are! That’s the only real fun there 
is in being engaged.” 

“All right; I’ll see what I can do; but when I’m engaged 
I won’t have a curious mob spying on my happiness.” 

Both Boyd and Doris Marie found the busy days that 
followed their betrothal most exciting and in every way 
satisfactory. 

Most of their energy and enthusiasm was given to the 
purchase and fitting out of the new automobile for the 
honeymoon trip. When ready it contained all the luxuries 
to be secured, as well as some of their own devising, and 
represented hours of joyous companionship. 

Then, for Boyd, there were hours devoted to business 
conferences with Stafford, who was patently pleased to 
know that young Boyd was to be away for an indefinite 
length of time. Also, there was the work of remodelling 
his old home. At first he had not been quite happy about 
that, but he soon realized that to change everything about 
the house as much as possible would help him to forget the 
past. He told Doris Marie that he believed it would be 
better to sell the house and build a new one in the wealthier 
part of the city—but Doris Marie promptly vetoed that 
suggestion. Having made her plans for making over the 
old house into something unique and striking and more 
commodious than the bungalow Boyd had planned, she 
was not to be induced to change her mind. She insisted that 
the work of carrying out her plans begin at once, and ar¬ 
gued that Boyd ought to be willing to please her in this 
matter since she had so cheerfully given up her jolly plan 
to do a little rum-running on their wedding trip, and he 
made a shrewd guess that he’d be obliged to let her have 


REJUVENATED 


179 


her own way many times to pay for her giving up cheer¬ 
fully on that one occasion. 

An architect was taken into the old house on the day 
following the announcement of their betrothal, and Boyd 
was surprised at the good sense, the artistic pr.eception, 
and the applicability of Doris Marie’s suggestions. She 
knew what she wanted, was quick to see, when told why 
she could not get the effect desired, and equally quick in 
suggesting an alternative. She also showed herself versa¬ 
tile in ways of getting her effects at a minimum of expen¬ 
diture, and she never scandalized the architect by mixing 
periods when outlining the decorations desired. Boyd 
quickly found himself relegated, to a position as interested 
audience and amiable purse-holder—and he was surprised 
at himself because he didn’t mind that at all. Doris Marie 
had given him so much reason to distrust her judgment 
that he was pleased, now, to find her so capable. He was 
admiring her very much, and their happiness together 
seemed assured. 

And the little bride-to-be was equally charming when 
they appeared at the various functions given in their honor. 
Without over-doing it, as he had feared she might, she let 
it be seen that she was greatly interested in him, and that 
she respected him and was almost ready to obey him, and 
that she believed in their future happiness together. She 
never once embarrassed him by sitting on his lap before 
their friends, or insisting upon a public petting party, as 
she had often done in the days when she had declared that 
they were only trying each other out, with a view to matri¬ 
mony. She had seemed to grow years older, quite suddenly. 
She was already a woman, with cares and duties that re¬ 
quired all her attention—and she was far more attractive 
and adorable than she had ever been before. Even in her 
relations with her parents, this remarkable change for the 
better was noticeable, and they were delighted, if aston- 


180 


REJUVENATED 


ished. They had never expected to have her ask their ad¬ 
vice about anything, as she was doing now—and they found 
it a welcome relief to be no longer under her jurisdiction as 
a sort of imperious guardian who was responsible for their 
behavior. 

The three weeks following their betrothal was absolutely 
ideal, not only in the estimation of the two most vitally con¬ 
cerned—but also in the opinion of all their little world. 

“I can’t understand it,” said Mr. Palmer to his wife: 
“Doris Marie was so nasty to Boyd at first, and now she 
seems absolutely wrapped up in him.” 

“We never have understood Doris Marie,” sighed Mrs. 
Palmer. “And I don’t know, now, whether she is in love 
with Boyd, or in love with love. Sometimes I think she has 
just hypnotized herself into the belief that she is ideally 
happy.” 

“Well, if you’re right, here’s hoping she’ll never come out 
from under the spell. To be quite frank with you, my dear, 
F11 feel like drawing a long breath of relief when Doris 
Marie is safely married. She’s been a good deal of a prob¬ 
lem.” 

“Yes, she has,” assented the mother. “I suppose we’ll 
have to give some credit to all the stuff that’s being printed 
about the failure of modern parents—but for the life of me 
I can’t see how I could have done any better.” 

“You couldn’t,” replied her husband, vigorously. “No 
one could. Doris Marie has been a puzzle since she was 
a day old. Parents of our day have been presented with a 
race of young people utterly unlike any ever before known 
—and we weren’t given the key to their personalities, 
neither were we warned that an entirely new race was com¬ 
ing. All the same, our little girl has been most interesting 
and diverting—and at times very, very lovable—” to all of 
which his wife assented. And then they relapsed into a 
delightful hour of reminiscing, during which they recalled 


REJUVENATED 


181 


all the sweetest and most interesting events of their daugh¬ 
ter’s career, and forgot the troubles she had caused them. 
Her barque had drifted into safe waters, and they were very 
happy. 

“I think, Boydicum,” Doris Marie was saying, “that 
we’ll make our honeymoon trip only half as long as we had 
planned.” 

“Your reasons?” asked Boyd, lazily. 

“It will be only half as expensive.” 

“It doesn’t sound so very expensive to me, as you had 
the original plans mapped out.” 

“Well, it really wasn’t—as honeymoons go; but what’s 
a honeymoon anyhow? Only a custom; we’ll be just as 
securely married as if we’d roamed around the world for 
a month and spent a fortune. We are really going on a 
honeymoon trip at all just because it is expected of us.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think we’re going to 
have a dandy good time.” 

“Well, I think it will be more fun to come back here, 
when it’s half over, go to some dinky little hotel where 
none of the bunch would ever think of looking for us—and 
finish our celebration by concentrating on that house.” 

“Of course what you say goes.” 

“And then I won’t have to confess to poor Betty Sue that 
you wouldn’t let me bring her the hooch she is just dying 
for. I’ll write her that we’ve made a complete change in our 
plans, and she must get some of the others to help her out.” 

“You couldn’t write her, I suppose, that we were not 
going to begin life together by breaking laws?” 

“I’d never dream of doing that. Why Boydicum, what 
right have we to interfere? We weren’t born to be acting 
conscience for anyone on earth except ourselves. All our 
friends must live their own lives as we expect to live ours. 
Besides, I might break that law another time. I haven’t 


182 


REJUVENA TED 


said I wouldn’t. I just gave up because it was your time to 
have your own way.” 

“Wouldn’t you abide by my judgment?” asked Boyd 
reproachfully. 

“Most certainly not. The good Lord gave me a modicum 
of judgment all my own; guess I’m not going to wrap it up 
in a napkin and bury it.” Then she chuckled adorably. 
“Say, Methuselah, darling, you didn’t think I could quote 
scripture like that, did you? Isn’t it a point in my favor?” 

“Quite the contrary—especially if it leads you to call me 
Methuselah. Boydicum is bad enough. Can’t you think 
up something a little more appropriate that would please 
you just as well?” 

“You object to all my pet names. Now there was 
grandpa—” 

“Doris Marie, you promised—” 

“Oh, I know. I’m not going to call you that. At least, 
I’ll begin by calling you father—when the proper time 
comes. I don’t mean to allow our children to say daddy, or 
papa or mamma; they must call us father and mother.” 

Boyd could never become used to the casual way in 
which Doris Marie talked of their children. It wasn’t done 
by the newly engaged when he was young and yet he had 
to admit that there was something rather charming about 
it. And there was reason in her contention that it was no 
worse to mention babies five minutes before they were 
born than it was five minutes after they were born—and 
that what was true of a five-minute period held equally 
good for any length of time. 

Boyd had moved his personal belongings to his club while 
his home was being remodelled, but he had left the Jap in 
charge of the house. When he returned to his rooms in 
the club building after learning from Doris Marie that the 
honeymoon trip was to be curtailed, he was feeling more 
than a little depressed. He found that he did not want that 


REJUVENATED 


183 


trip to be curtailed. He wanted to get away from the city. 
The longer he could stay away, with a reasonable excuse for 
doing so, the better pleased he would be. He hadn’t realized 
this until Doris Marie changed their plans. He especially 
wanted to get away from his office, where he was constant¬ 
ly being reminded that Boyd Hunter’s son could not take 
his father’s place—simply because no one believed he could. 
He was heartily tired of being convinced that his beloved 
business could be most admirably conducted if he never 
visited the office at all. There was no little irony in the 
thought that it was to enable him to return to that busi¬ 
ness and manage it that he had concocted the lie which he 
must enact to the end of his days. Not only had he wished 
to return to the business, it had also been a strong desire 
to return to old Stafford, his beloved friend, whom he could 
not discharge and be happy, and who would never again 
be his beloved friend. How cruelly life had used him. 

Boyd saw many weary hours when he felt that it would 
be good to sell out the business and go away where no one 
had ever heard of the man he used to be. He often thought 
how good it would be to go away among strangers and 
carve an honored place for the man he was today. He was 
thinking of this when he carelessly took the letter the clerk 
handed him, with his key, and went up to his room. 

“But I couldn’t go now,” he thought almost regretfully. 
“I cut my bridges behind me when I became engaged to 
Doris Marie. There will always be a Boyd Hunter who is 
too much like the old man ever to please even the best 
friends of that old man.” 

This thought served to bring back the terrible feeling 
of loneliness that he had known ever since his return to 
New York. He wondered why he should suffer from that 
now. He had scarcely suffered from it at all since his en¬ 
gagement to Doris Marie, and he had believed that he never 
again would be obliged to endure it. Doris Marie was such 


184 


REJUVENATED 


an unexpected girl—so different from other girls—she al¬ 
ways kept a fellow guessing. He might not always approve 
of her, but she certainly kept him from worrying over his 
undesirable position in life. Then why should he feel so 
depressed just because she had cut short their honeymoon 
trip? That trip couldn’t go on forever at best, and he 
couldn’t very well run away—“cut and run; cut and run—” 
how that damned song stuck by! 

He threw himself into an easy chair without removing 
his hat and overcoat, and read his letter. It was from a 
well known hotel in Boston, and was written by Hicks 
Jarou. 

“I am at the above address for a few days,” he read, “and 
am most anxious for a conference with you before taking 
the steamer back to my place in France. It is on a matter 
of some importance to you, as I feel sure you will decide— 
and I am equally sure you would prefer that it should not 
be taken up by correspondence, and that you would not 
wish to have me appear in your New York office. I would 
suggest that you come to me immediately upon receipt of 
this—and I also suggest that you bring the check you 
gave me for my services, and which must have been re¬ 
turned to you, since it was paid promptly by your bank. I 
mention this in case that what I have to tell you should 
cause you to decide that you would not care to have me 
looked up and questioned concerning the check which—as 
you cannot fail to remember, was for services added to my 
charge for curing your cancer.” 

For a few moments Boyd sat as if paralyzed. He faintly 
realized that the sword had fallen, yet he couldn’t really 
believe it. He realized, also, that ever since his return 
to New York from France there had been a warning voice 
within his consciousness telling him to beware. But what 
could Hicks Jarou do? Suppose he paid no attention to the 
letter? What would his tormentor do in that event? And 


REJUVENATED 


185 


why should he wish to do anything? Was it because he had 
failed to give Jarou public recognition of his skill in curing 
cancer? Well, he could do that, yet—Oh, no, he couldn’t 
for the Boyd Hunter who had been afflicted with cancer of 
the liver had died of it. Nothing he could say, now, would 
convince anyone that he, himself, was the Boyd Hunter 
whom they had known for years. Any attempt to con¬ 
vince his old friends of that would simply result in sending 
him to an insane asylum. What, then, was to be done? 
Obviously, the first step was to go to Boston and see 
Hicks Jarou. Perhaps he was worrying needlessly. Perhaps 
the man was not as unfriendly as his letter sounded. He 
read the letter again, and with greater care. After all, had 
not his own fears been responsible for the panic that had 
him in its grip? Yes, he would go to see Hicks Jarou. He 
would go at once. He would never face any of his friends 
again until he had seen him — discovered the worst — 
learned what he might expect in the future. One thing was 
certain, he did not want Jarou to come to New York. He 
did not want him to appear in his office. He did not want 
Stafford to meet him—nor Doris Marie either—in fact no 
one must know that he himself had ever met him. 

He called his Japanese servant on the phone. 

“Come to the club at once, George,” he said; “I find that 
I must leave for Boston tonight. I need you to help me 
pack. I want to give you some written instructions con¬ 
cerning the work on the house.” 

He must not forget to write the instructions. Of course 
he only expected to be away perhaps thirty-six hours at 
the longest—but some inner monitor urged him to pre¬ 
pare for a somewhat longer absence. 

He called Doris Marie to the phone. “Dear,” he said, 
“I’ve just received an urgent call to Boston. I must go 
tonight.” 


186 


REJUVENATED 


The wail that greeted him was actually pathetic. “Oh, 
no Boyd, not tonight. You can’t go tonight.” 

“I must. I hate it, but I must go. Please try to believe 
that I’ve got to go—and that I’d give half my fortune just 
to stay here with you.” 

“But Boydicum, listen. Have you forgotten that Dicky 
is giving a dinner party in our honor at the Ritz? Tonight, 
Boydicum?” 

“No, I have not forgotten.” Boyd actually groaned. “It 
will be hard to forgive me—I don’t know what you can say 
—I don’t know what he will do—” 

“Do? Why he can’t do anything. It is too late. You 
simply can’t go. We can’t disappoint him. We’d never be 
forgiven. We wouldn’t deserve to be. We’d never get 
another invitation from anyone.” 

“Oh, Doris Marie, I can’t be there. I really can not. 
Please believe that it is utterly impossible.” 

“Whv can’t you? Is it a matter of business?” 

“Yes'” 

“And you would consider any business matter of greater 
importance than my wishes—now—when everything that 
happens is of such tremendous importance to me?” 

“No, no, dear, not half so important as you—but our 
future happiness may depend upon this trip; I must go. I 
dare not ignore the summons.” 

“Summons from whom?” 

“I can’t tell you that—at least not now.” Boyd realized 
that he never could tell, in all likelihood, and that during 
his absence it would be up to him to concoct a story that 
would be accepted by all his New York acquaintances. 

“Does that mean there are secrets in your life that I am 
never to be told?” Doris Marie’s voice was crisp. 

“I thought you said you did not believe in married people 
feeling obliged to tell the secrets of their past—that the 


REJUVENATED 


187 


partner really had no business with the life of one whom 
he had never known.” 

Boyd spoke banteringly, tried to inject a teasing tone 
into his voice, and hoped that Doris Marie would sud¬ 
denly decide to live up to her widely circulated code of life 
—her code before she had decided to marry him. But 
evidently her intention to marry had made a marked differ¬ 
ence in her code. She now showed herself strikingly like 
the mid-Victorian bride-elect, in the matter of secrets of 
the past. 

“I see,” she said angrily; “there are secrets that you are 
ashamed to reveal. Doubtless you are going to Boston to 
settle matters with the other woman.” 

“That is not true,” replied Boyd calmly, “but even if it 
were, have you forgotten how scornful you have been of 
any girl who felt that she couldn’t hold her own with any 
other woman?” 

“That presupposes that the man has played fair—and 
she has been told of the other woman,” was Doris Marie’s 
quick rejoinder. “You are not playing fair. I am being 
kept in the dark.” 

“I swear that there is no other woman. You are the 
only one. I hate this trip and shall not know a moment’s 
happiness until I am back here again with you. What can 
I say more than that? Can’t you believe me, little girl? 
Can’t you let me go feeling that you do believe me? You’ve 
been so wonderful, Doris Marie—you have made me so 
happy—happier than I have ever been before; can’t you 
help me now?” 

“Help you? How?” The little word, help, appealed to 
Doris Marie—served to lessen her irritation. 

“It will be up to you to explain my absence to Dicky— 
make him understand, dear, that I simply had to go. Or 
would you rather that I called him up? I would, only I’m 


188 


REJUVENATED 


so busy—I’ve a dozen things to do—please darling, help 
me out—just as you would if we were already married.” 

“All right. Don’t worry. I’ll fix things with Dicky. I’ll 
tell you how we’ll manage. Dicky shall be your proxy. He’ll 
be giving the final bachelor dinner—except that it will be 
different because ladies will be included. He’ll play he is 
the bridegroom, and I’ll be the blushing bride. We’ll have 
oodles of fun. We’ll show them how to make love, and he 
won’t make me rub the color off my lips. Don’t you worry 
about our party, Boydicum. But remember, you’ll have to 
tell me everything when you get back—every single thing! 
Now I’ll have to ring off because there won’t be a minute 
to spare. We can’t make such a stupendous change in that 
party without a little rehearsal. Goodby, Boydicum. Come 
to see me the minute you get back—the very minute, mind 
you!” 

She had hung up. That was ended. It had really not 
been at all difficult. Boyd was not quite sure that it had 
not been a little too easy. She was evidently quite intrigued 
with the novelty of a proxy at a prenuptial feast. Without 
doubt her friends would make it a very hilarious party— 
perhaps more hilarious because they would believe that 
never again would Doris Marie—their leader—be quite as 
jolly and carefree as she had been. Well, that was that. Now 
for the business of getting ready for the trip to Boston. 

The Jap was busily packing. Boyd had instructed him 
to get his grip ready—“and you might pack my suitcase, 
too,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what I shall need. 
There may be something in the social line. It’s just as 
well to be prepared for anything.” 

What about money? He was always fairly well supplied 
—but he needed more. The office was closed. His bank 
was closed. He must borrow. How much ought he to 
take? He couldn’t borrow from his future father-in-law,— 


REJUVENATED 


189 


at least he didn’t care to try. There’d be sure to be un¬ 
pleasant questions—questions that would take time—and 
he had no time to spare. He must have money and within 
the hour if he were to catch the next train to Boston. How 
much? He really had enough with him to buy a return 
ticket and pay for a night’s lodging at his hotel. He could 
get more there if he needed it—but the inner consciousness 
that had seemed to direct all his movements led him to 
desire two thousand dollars more than he had with him. 
Could he get it here at his club? He would run down to 
the office and see. 

He got the money without trouble—wrote his check and 
it was cashed cheerfully. He had simply explained that he 
had received an unexpected summons to Boston, that he 
should need that amount of money, and that he expected to 
return within thirty-six hours. 

He wrote a letter to Stafford explaining his absence, and 
assuring the old man that he felt confident that everything 
about the business would be as well attended to as if he 
were present. It seemed rather silly to be writing this 
letter, when he only expected to be away thirty-six hours, 
and already he had arranged for an absence on his honey¬ 
moon trip of at least a month—but something within him 
insisted upon the letter. Then he wrote a brief note to 
Palmer telling of his unexpected summons to Boston — 
nothing alarming—he’d explain upon his return—but he 
hoped Mr. Palmer would help Doris Marie to understand 
that sometimes such things were necessary in the life of a 
business man—and he was really writing this appeal to 
his solicitor who, happily, was also the father of the girl 
he was to marry. 

Boyd Hunter caught the train to Boston which he had 
planned to take. He knew it was the train that Hicks Jarou 
would expect him to take. Would the man be at the sta¬ 
tion to meet him? What did the next few hours have in 


190 


REJUVENATED 


store for him? A shiver of apprehension ran through his 
body. He was afraid—afraid—and he did not know why. 
He would have jumped off at a way station—cut and run— 
had he dared to. If Hicks Jarou were like anyone else—but 
he was not like anyone else. He had never met a man like 
him. It was impossible to guess what he would do. Boyd 
was so shaken with fear that it made him actually ill—and 
yet he knew he must go on—keep the engagement—face 
what was in store for him—live his miserable life to the end 
—for he was not one who could contemplate suicide as a 
way out. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Thirty-six hours had passed, and Boyd Hunter had not 
returned. Stafford was anxious, principally because he had 
not been told the nature of the business that had called 
Boyd away so suddenly. He thought he should have been 
told. He feared the young fellow would take the bits in 
his teeth—run away with some new idea without consult¬ 
ing the men who knew more about his father’s business 
than he could ever know. The longer Boyd remained away 
the more uneasy Stafford became. 

Another day and a half, and still Boyd had not returned. 
No word had been received from him. Doris Marie was 
justly indignant. He might at least have found time to 
telegraph. She told her father so, and added that all men 
were alike, in a manner quite withering. She declared that 
no business could be so absorbing as to prevent a man from 
writing out a brief telegram, and that the situation demand¬ 
ed the help of a parent of ability. Her father agreed with 
her. He was puzzled and more than a little alarmed. He 
conferred with Stafford. Together, they thought of many 
reasons why Boyd might be keeping silence—reasons not 
altogether to his credit, but they couldn’t actually accept 
any of them. They waited another day, and then consulted 
the chief of a private detective bureau. 

“I really haven’t worried very much,” Stafford admitted; 
“I’ve been very busy—and when a man is getting ready to 
be married—wouldn’t there be things to attend to that 
might take him away? I’ve never been married—I don’t 
know—” He spoke vaguely, and the chief smiled. 

“I fancy,” he replied, “that most modern young men 
would find it necessary to mend a few fences—” 


191 


192 


REJUVENA TED 


“Boyd was an exemplary young chap,” interrupted Staf¬ 
ford hastily— “exactly like his father who was one of the 
most honorable of men.” 

“Don’t put him in the past tense,” said the detective, 
genially. “I have no doubt that he is still a most exemplary 
young man. We mustn’t forget that a young man of today 
has problems that his father would never have run up 
against.” 

“He said he’d be back in thirty-six hours—that is what 
he told me, at any rate,” supplied Mr. Palmer, “and he told 
my daughter so, too.” 

“That is what he told me,” added Stafford; “but I made 
allowances—I am not worrying—I feel that everything 
is all right—really—” 

“If you aren’t at all anxious,” interrupted Palmer, “whv 
did you let me send for the chief? There’s no reason why 
Boyd could not have written or telegraphed to some of us. 
You can’t think of any reason, can you?” 

Stafford couldn’t. 

“His business is all right, isn’t it,” asked the detective; 
“nothing to worry about there?” 

“Nothing at all,” replied Stafford with emphasis. “His 
business was never in better shape. It pays a most gratify¬ 
ing dividend.” 

“Has he ever told you of any other worries—anything of 
a personal nature—anything pertaining to his life before 
he met his father?” 

“Not a thing. He was—is—a close-mouthed chap.” 

“What I have noticed about him,” pursued Mr. Palmer, 
“is that he didn’t—doesn’t like to be questioned concern¬ 
ing his past life. Did he never tell you anything about 
that?” 

“Not one word, if he could help it—and he generally 
could. I soon learned not to ask questions. He’d get un¬ 
reasonably irritated even over the most casual question 


REJUVENATED 


193 


about how he had lived, where he went to school—little 
things like that.” 

“M-m-m,” murmured the detective, and he wrote some¬ 
thing in his note book that he kept to himself. 

“I suppose,” said Mr. Palmer, tentatively, “that we can’t 
absolutely discount the possibility of another woman?” 

“It would be in keeping with the young of his genera¬ 
tion,” interjected the detective with a little secret smile 
that angered Stafford. 

“Then you think it may be that?” asked Palmer, quickly, 
and anxiously. He was thinking of Doris Marie. 

“No,” exploded Stafford, “it is not that. I can’t believe 
—I won’t believe—that the son of old Boyd Hunter could 
do anything that was not strictly honorable. I tell you, the 
young fellow was as like his father as two peas in a pod, 
and I knew old Boyd Hunter from the heart out.” 

“But it might be a case of blackmail—he really might 
not be so very much to blame—” interrupted the detective, 
gently—“and he did raise two thousand dollars—” 

“What would that amount to if it were a case of black¬ 
mail,” asked Stafford with sarcasm. 

“It might act as a sop—” said Palmer, thoughtfully. 

“But in that case he’d have been drawing on his account 
for a larger sum long before this,” replied Stafford. “It 
isn’t a case of blackmail.” 

“He might have been unduly intimate with some girl— 
she might be in trouble,” said the detective, easily. “Two 
thousand dollars would see her through—” 

“He has been here five months; she could have found 
out her condition before this—and she must have known 
his address.” Mr., Palmer was offering reasons why the 
detective could not be right. “His firm is pretty well 
known,—he’d have been sent for before this—” 

“She might have known him under some other name,” 
said the detective. 


194 


REJUVENATED 


“That is true,” admitted Palmer, grudgingly. 

“I can’t and won’t believe there’s anything in that,” said 
Stafford, explosively. “I tell you, I knew his father. I 
knew all he went through after his wife ran away. There 
were never any women in his life. He was absolutely de¬ 
cent. I don’t believe he could have a son who would shame 
him in any such way. And if the boy had been led astray 
because he had had no father to train him, he would have 
made everything right before he came here to take his 
father’s place. His father would have questioned him, be¬ 
fore sending him here—found out all there was to know 
about him. I have every proof that the old man did every¬ 
thing possible to train his son to take his place. He would 
never have sent him here if he had thought the boy would 
disgrace him.” 

The detective arose, looking rather bored. One couldn’t 
put much confidence in statements coming from a friend 
who out-Damoned old Damon himself. 

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ve got all the facts—all that 
you can give me, anyhow. I’ll keep the matter in mind— 
and let you know if anything turns up. Good morning.” 

“You’re sure that man will keep still about it?” asked 
Stafford, anxiously. “It would be bad for the business if he 
—if he made a public scandal of-^-of anything—” 

“It would be hard on my daughter,” replied Palmer. “I 
made him promise—I think he is to be trusted—” 

“Mind you, I don’t believe there can be anything of 
a scandalous nature. I meant every word I said about Boyd 
to that old busy body—” 

“And he didn’t believe any of it,” interrupted Palmer. 
“He’s going to work this out in his own way—but I’m sure 
we’ll be first to hear what he finds out.” 

“If so—and it’s bad—we must find a way to protect the 
business—” 


REJUVENATED 


195 


“We must find a way to protect Doris Marie,” inter¬ 
rupted Mr. Palmer, savagely. 

Stafford’s opinion, expressed so emphatically, and his 
absolute belief in Boyd Hunter’s integrity, had great 
weight with the old friends of Boyd Hunter, senior. That 
left but one theory that they could accept, and this soon 
became unanimous. There had been foul play. They de¬ 
clared that detectives must be summoned—the best the 
city afforded, and then it became known that already the 
two men most interested were in communication with the 
best detectives that the city of Boston boasted. 

What looked at first like a simple problem increased as 
clue after clue yielded no information. It soon reached a 
point where it could no longer be kept a secret among 
Boyd’s friends. The newspapers took up the hunt, and 
readers who thrived on excitement turned first to the 
columns that treated of the mysterious disappearance of the 
man they described as the popular young business man who 
was so soon to have been married to one of New York’s 
most beautiful, most charming, and best known society 
debutantes. 

Doris Marie saw her loveliest portrait spoiled by repro¬ 
duction in all the leading papers, and angrily wondered how 
anyone dared—while her mother, who had supplied the 
photograph that Doris Marie had selected kept a discreet 
silence. They were both getting a certain enjoyment out of 
the publicity—and considerable satisfaction in their oppor¬ 
tunity for openly expressed indignation. 

It was learned that Boyd had not gone to the hotel in 
Boston that he had expected to patronize. His signature 
was not found on any hotel register in Boston—and the 
detectives had visited even the rather disreputable hostel- 
ries that they knew he would not enter, but without getting 
a clue to his disappearance. If he had spent the night in 
Boston, it must have been at the house of some friend. But 


196 


REJUVENATED 


whom did he know? He had never mentioned having any 
friend in Boston. He had only gone to Boston once since 
he came to take his father’s place, and that was on business 
for the firm, and he had put up at the hotel his father had 
always patronized. Old Mr. Hunter had no personal friends 
in Boston. He had never gone to Boston except on urgent 
business. 

Finally a newspaper man declared that he believed he 
had some information that might help. The porter on the 
train Boyd had taken remembered the young man very 
well. He said he had been met by an elderly man of 
singular appearance who had a red-cap boy in attendance, 
and that Boyd’s suit case was carried to a taxi that was 
evidently in waiting. The two men drove off together. 

Who was the elderly man? What made the porter speak 
of his appearance as “singular”? The porter couldn’t say 
“jus zactly—” but he “suttinly didn’t look jis like other 
folks.” 

After much questioning the following description was 
put together and made a part of the records in the case: 

A man not much above medium height with hands and 
feet rather too small and a head a little too large for his 
body— dark, melancholy eyes in which a strange light 
would suddenly appear and as suddenly die down— and a 
shock of beautiful white curly hair that didn’t really agree 
with the otherwise youthful appearance of the man, who 
walked briskly and gracefully, and had the commanding 
air of one who kept his place at the head of things. “Must 
of been a Cunnel,” said the porter— “a Cunnel—or mebbe 
a Gen’ral.” 

“Sounds to me,” said Joe-Anne, “like a good description 
of the man we saw in Central Park, one New Year’s day. 
Don’t you remember, Doris Marie? The man who told our 
fortunes?” 


REJUVENATED 


197 


Doris Marie remembered, “but saw no reason for try¬ 
ing to connect that faker with Boyd’s disappearance. That 
was long before Boyd’s arrival; of course they had never 
met. And Boyd wouldn’t run away with a tramp like that, 
anyhow.” 

“He said he was a scientist,” Joe-Anne reminded her. 
“Didn’t he say he was interested in biology?” 

“I don’t remember— haven’t given him a thought in 
ages.” 

“What was his name?” persisted Joe-Anne. “I can al¬ 
most speak it—” 

“Something outlandish,” replied Doris Marie—“probably 
he invented it on the spot. I think he was like that. Nothing 
he told us came to pass.” 

“There’s time enough yet,” said Joe-Anne. “If Boyd 
never returns you may yet meet up with the man old 
enough to be your father.” 

“Joe-Anne, you promised never to speak of that again.” 

“I didn’t either. I said I wouldn’t except under great 
provocation. Suppose that man has kept track of you, and 
doesn’t want you to marry Boyd, and so lured Boyd 
away—” 

“Joe-Anne, I won’t listen to such nonsense.” 

“All right; you don’t have to—but what a corking good 
story one could get up.” 

And thus one good clue to Boyd’s disappearance was 
consigned to oblivion. 


Weeks passed into months, and the months became a 
year, and nothing more was learned of the disappearance 
of Boyd Hunter. He had dropped completely from his little 
world, and the general opinion was that he had been 
killed—possibly for the two thousand dollars he had taken 
away with him. But how had his murder been accom- 


198 


REJUVENATED 


plished? How could it have been covered up so success¬ 
fully? 

Doris Marie could not be convinced that Boyd would not 
return. She insisted on going on with the work of recon¬ 
structing the house just as they had planned. She knew 
he would be very happy to find it all ready for them to 
begin housekeeping. Her father and old Stafford saw no 
good reason for refusing her the comfort she found in this 
work. There Avas money enough to meet all expenses. 
They knew that Doris Marie had made the plans and that 
Boyd had intended to let her carry them out—and if it 
comforted the poor child—as it quite evidently did— 

The house was finished at last—even to the wonderful 
nursery on the third story where ample accommodations 
had been provided for four children, and where five might 
be cared for! Doris Marie wanted to take possession—but 
was finally persuaded that such a move would not do at 
all. Her parents might have been cajoled and intimidated 
—that had frequently happened when they sought to con¬ 
trol their daughter, and Doris Marie would quite likely 
have succeeded in geting their consent to her plans—but 
Stafford could not be moved. He was adamant. He paid 
the bills, and carried the keys to the finished house. It 
would not be occupied while he lived, unless Boyd came 
to take possession, or sent word that some one else might 
occupy it. A silly girl’s hysterics did not disturb him in 
the least. Doris Marie had found her master in old Staf¬ 
ford, and she hated him. She told him that she would see to 
it that he was discharged the very minute Boyd got back, 
but that didn’t seem to worry him much. He smiled and 
kept the keys to the house. He was really happier than he 
had been in months, and he began to regain some of the 
weight he had lost since the arrival on the scene of his old 
friend’s son. He couldn’t account for it, and did not at¬ 
tempt to in public, but to himself he said that he felt as if a 


REJUVENATED 


199 


spook that had been sitting on his chest, had now taken its 
departure. 

Stafford paid scrupulous attention to the business. It 
took quite a stride forward during the first months of 
Boyd’s absence, and his bank account was larger than it 
had ever been. It would prove to the young fellow upon 
his return, that he could leave the business any length of 
time without worrying about it—unless old Stafford should 
die. 


The detectives who had been employed to solve the mys¬ 
tery of Boyd’s disappearance gradually wearied of the job, 
or were discharged, and only the chief was left. He kept 
the matter in mind, quite comfortably, but had practically 
dismissed it as one of the mysteries that never could be 
solved. There was no one to keep his interest alive, for as 
time passed it appeared that no one seemed to care much 
as to what had happened to Boyd Hunter. He had not 
become enough of a citizen during his short stay in New 
York to count with the older generation, and the younger 
generation had always considered him something of a 
sissy—also too good-looking, and too well off financially, 
and too much of a preacher, and too inhumanly good to be 
more than tolerated. They were frankly pleased that he 
had disappeared, and they could go on with their senseless 
round of pleasure-seeking without having to drag along an 
old-fashioned lummox like Boyd Hunter. 

Even Doris Marie ceased to expect him back. She de¬ 
cided that he had been killed for the two thousand dollars— 
that his body would never be found—that his murderers 
would never be known—that, if alive, he had forfeited her 
love and she should never forgive him—and that it was 
high time she began playing the game of love with some 
one else. She went back to Dicky—who protested valiantly 
and was beaten, and who said, publicly and plaintively, that 


200 


REJUVENA TED 


he was quite done for unless some one came who could 
interest Doris Marie more than he did and take her off his 
hands. He frequently told the bunch when they were at 
some party, that he’d always nourish a tender sentiment 
for Boyd Hunter for having given him a little rest from 
Doris Marie. And Doris Marie grinned comfortably, and 
no one took him seriously except Joe-Anne, who seemed 
to understand, and to whom he made a practice of confiding 
all his troubles. 

“But it looks to me so very silly,” she said one day when 
they were discussing the situation. “I can’t see any good 
reason why you should run about with Doris Marie so 
devotedly, if you don’t enjoy it.” 

“I’m not running about with her at all devotedly—and 
I do not enjoy it,” replied Dicky. 

“People say you’ll soon be engaged to her—if you don’t 
watch out.” 

“I’ve been going with her because I’m sorry for the poor 
kid—to be jilted just when she thought her plans were 
going to materialize—” 

“Jilted! Do you really think that—but of course you 
don’t.” 

“Down in the bottom of my heart, I believe I do; but 
this is just between you and me, you understand. I’ve seen 
those two together enough to know that Boyd Hunter 
didn’t love her—” 

“Nor did Doris Marie love him,” interrupted Joe-Anne. 
“They don’t believe in love. They said so.” 

“I’ve said so, too,” rejoined Dicky; “but just the same 
I’ll never marry until I think I’m in love.” 

“That’s the way I feel about it,” confessed Joe-Anne. 
“And Doris Marie tells me over and over that it is the 
big reason why I’ll never be married. What shall you do, 
Dicky, when Doris Marie gets ready to announce her en¬ 
gagement to you?” 


REJUVENATED 


201 


“She won’t do that; she wouldn’t dare.” 

“I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you. Doris Marie 
dares do whatever she wants to do—and she means to 
marry.” 

“If she should do a thing like that to me, I’d— I’d—well, 
I’d do exactly as Boyd Hunter did—cut and run.” 

“You wouldn’t marry her?” 

“Not on your life, I wouldn’t,” replied Dicky with con¬ 
viction. “I’ll help her through the worst of this trouble,” 
he added,—“that is, if she’ll behave herself; but I may as 
well tell you that I’ve gone just about as far in my char¬ 
acter of comforting angel as I mean to go. What you have 
just said about it frightens me. Knowing Doris Marie as 
I do, I’d not like the job of shaking her if she decided to 
marry me.” 

“She wouldn’t do it under ordinary circumstances,” said 
Joe-Anne. “I don’t believe she wants to marry you— I 
really do not believe she cares very much about being en¬ 
gaged to you—but she can’t bear to have anyone think she 
has been jilted. And if you think that, others must think 
so, too—and Doris Marie would be just shrewd enough to 
suspect it. She wouldn’t like that; she’d fight against it, 
and she wouldn’t know of any better way than to annex 
you.” 

“It’s little Dicky for the tall timber,” replied that young 
man, “so tell me—shall I make the separation immediate, or 
invite her once or twice more—” 

“Isn’t that for you to say?” asked Joe-Anne. “I’m not tell¬ 
ing your fortune, you know.” 

“You’re being a darned loyal little friend,” replied Dicky, 
“and I shan’t forget it. I’ve been all kinds of a silly ass to 
think I could help Doris Marie by playing around with her, 
and I might have given the bunch a chance to say that I 
had jilted her.” 


202 


REJUVENA TED 


Joe-Anne made no response to this, although the thought 
came into her mind that perhaps that might be said anyhow, 
and she was sorry she had warned Dicky. That is, she was 
a little sorry—but not as much so as a friend should be. A 
lovely light was burning in her eyes, her cheeks were like 
wild roses, and a happy smile played with the dimples at the 
corners of her mouh. She was looking unusually attractive, 
and Dicky chanced to observe her at exactly the right 
moment. He was impressed. Afterward, he recalled her 
expression and wondered why he had never before noticed 
how really attractive Joe-Anne was. He had considered her 
a most desirable friend and confidante ever since he had 
known her, and now he suddenly realized that she was 
something more than that. One night he awoke from a 
sound sleep, saying to himself, “By gosh, I believe she 
looked like that—sweet and desirable and all fluttery be¬ 
cause I had said I did not intend to marry Doris Marie. I 
wonder!” 

And during the next fortnight he wondered rather fre¬ 
quently and decided that he was wise not to be seen with 
Doris Marie any more, because to do so might hurt Joe- 
Anne. 

Meanwhile, Doris Marie was showing temper. Why 
hadn’t he been over to see her? There had been several 
affairs to which he should have taken her. Where 
was he every time she called at his studio? The janitor 
told her that he had not been in his studio for two weeks; 
where was he spending his time? And why had he not 
given her his new address? She asked all these questions 
in a very spicy letter that she sent to his club, and added 
that she was most anxious to go to the Friday evening 
dance—and if she couldn’t depend on him to take her, 
didn’t he think it would be the manly thing to do to tell 
her so, and give her time to make other arrangements? But 
Dicky did not get her letter until it was fully a week old. 


REJUVENATED 


203 


He was camping in the Adirondacks—but no one knew 
just where. 

Doris Marie waited a reasonable length of time for a 
reply to her letter, then called up the club and learned that 
Dicky had not been seen there in a long time. Then she 
called up Bert Baldwin and asked him if he’d help her out 
of a dilemma by taking her to the Friday night dance. “I’ll 
explain when I see you,” she informed him, and he had re¬ 
plied that he was glad indeed to have the honor of appear¬ 
ing as her escort. After arranging that, Doris Marie called 
up Joe-Anne, hoping to make an appointment for an im¬ 
mediate conference. But Joe-Anne was not at home— 
hadn’t been for a fortnight. Further questioning brought 
out the fact from the hesitating lips of a perplexed mother 
that she feared Joe-Anne was married. 

“Married!” almost screamed Doris Marie. 

“I suppose she is,” said the mother; “in fact, I’ve just 
this moment got a note from her to that effect.” 

“You told me she was going out of town to visit friends,” 
said Doris Marie reproachfully. 

“That is what she told me,” replied the mother. “But she 
seems to have gone to some parson’s house with Dicky 
Graham—” 

“Dicky Graham!” 

“Yes; didn’t I tell you? She and Dicky eloped and are 
married and I’ve just been told, and I don’t know where 
they are going to live or how—and they don’t seem to care. 
She writes that they are so much in love that—” 

But Doris Marie had hung up. She didn’t care to hear 
any more. “Married,” she said—“Joe-Anne and Dicky. 
Eloped. In love. Heavens, I’d better kneel down and give 
thanks that I had the nerve to ask Bert Baldwin to take 
me to the Friday night dance.” 

The weeks and months made up a full year, and Boyd 
Hunter had not returned. Nothing had been heard from 


204 


REJUVENATED 


him. He had sent for no money. Stafford now declared that 
it was a case of amnesia, a trouble that was becoming very 
common. He was confident that Boyd would suddenly and 
quite miraculously be restored, one of these days, and 
return to New York. When he did he would find his busi¬ 
ness all straight and very prosperous. His old home re¬ 
mained empty with the exception of the Jap, who cared for 
it as Boyd had told him to before he went on his mysterious 
journey, and devoutly thanked his honorable ancestors for 
having provided so comfortable a berth for their unworthy 
descendant. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“I am not particularly pleased to meet you,” said Hicks 
Jarou as Boyd stepped from the train, “although I am really 
glad to see you. Sounds ambiguous, doesn’t it? As an 
advertisement of my ability you could not be surpassed.” 

He looked his former patient over, critically, as he spoke, 
and while his expressive eyes told of his gratification as a 
healer they also evinced a contempt for Boyd, the man, that 
our friend found exceedingly galling. It had the effect of 
arousing in him a feeling of irritation that helped to make 
him far less pliable than he had been on that day, nearly 
two years ago, when they had first met in Central Park. 

“Advertisement!” he snorted; “advertisement be damned. 
Have you summoned me here because I have failed to 
advertise you?” 

“No, not for that,” was the grave response, “although you 
do seem to remember that you gave your promise to let 
others know how you had been helped.” 

“You know very well, if you know anything at all about 
me, that I couldn’t do that without giving myself away,” 
replied Boyd, angrily. “You knew I didn’t realize what was 
to happen when I told you to go on with your devilish plans 
—the damnable scheme that was to ruin my life. You must 
have known what a hellish scrape you were wishing on me. 
What did you expect me to do under such conditions?” 

“Really not quite all you promised,” replied Hicks Jarou, 
softly, then added with an amused smile, “you omitted in¬ 
fernal from your list of hellish adjectives; but never mind! 
I have learned, Mr. Hunter, that one who has been greatly 
helped seldom likes to give value received when once he 
thinks himself well out of the woods; but I really did have 

205 


206 


REJUVENA TED 


faith in you; you seemed rather more dependable than the 
ordinary run of men—” 

“You placed me in such a damnable position.” 

“You might have used infernal there.” 

“You are pleased to joke—but I’ve suffered.” 

“More than was necessary, my friend; much more than 
was necessary.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I know that you chose the path of Deceit which always 
brings more suffering than the path of Truth.” 

“Are you referring to my failure to advertise you ?” 

“I’m referring to your entire course of conduct. Of course 
I feel it that you failed me so utterly. I had really believed 
in your protestations of gratitude, because I knew that I 
had earned gratitude. Why, had it not been for me, you 
would not be living today. You are not unmindful of that 
fact.” 

“You evidently have no conception of what you have 
made me suffer,” said Boyd, who suddenly realized that he 
was really indebted to this man for his life, and that he had 
quite forgotten that he owed him anything. Now he felt 
that he must make Jarou see that there was something to 
be said on his side of the question. 

“You have suffered;—perhaps,” rejoined Jarou scornfully, 
“but others have died whom you might have saved. You 
can have no idea of the number of lives you might have 
saved—and didn’t.” 

“I?” interrupted Boyd—“I haven’t failed to save anyone’s 
life. That is poppycock!” But his voice was not convinc¬ 
ing. His conscience troubled him. 

“Your old friend, Hugh Jackson, has just died from can¬ 
cer of the liver,” Jarou reminded him. “You thought, when 
you first heard of his trouble, that you ought to tell him 
of your experience—but you didn’t do it. You allowed him 
to die. And you can’t have forgotten Mrs. Craddock—or 


REJUVENATED 


20 7 


the colored janitor in your office building, who is now in 
the hospital—” 

“I am not here,” interrupted Boyd, violently, “to be told 
what I ought to have done. That is none of your business. 
I have not appointed you my father confessor. I am here to 
learn what you have to tell me, and what you propose 
doing. And I have no time to waste. Why did you send 
for me?” 

“Principally,” replied Jarou, softly, and seemingly in no 
way irritated by Boyd’s violence, “because I have been 
reading the newspaper accounts of your coming marriage.” 

“Well, what about it?” demanded Boyd roughly. “In 
what way does my coming marriage concern you?” 

“My dear fellow, you can’t be so very much surprised as 
I know you will wish to appear, when I tell you that you 
are not free to marry, because you already have a wife.” 

“I already have—” stuttered Boyd, “that is not true. My 
wife is dead. You—you—are trying to blackmail me. You 
are making more trouble for me—you—you detestable 
scoundrel. I’d like to kill you.” 

Boyd really did not know what he was saying. Jarou 
realized his condition and almost pitied him. He could see 
that his patient had been tried beyond his endurance and 
decided to deal more gently with him than had been his 
intention when he first saw him. 

“t)on’t let yourself get so excited,” he said, “you’ll burst 
a blood vessel. I, as your physician, warn you.” 

“Why can’t you let me alone,” demanded Boyd, miser¬ 
ably. “Haven’t I suffered enough?” 

“Listen!” The voice was really soothing now, and the 
man’s manner had become sympathetic. “You must try to 
believe that I never meant to harm you. You must try to 
believe that I honestly tried to help you. To cure a man 
who was doomed to die—but we won’t refer to that again, 
since it seems to irritate you. I still believe I did well by 


208 


REJUVENATED 


you. All I ask now, is that you should try to believe that I 
am once more acting as seems to me right. Under the cir¬ 
cumstances, I really do not see how I could do differently 
—and you must realize that this is less embarrassing than it 
might have been had I gone to you instead of asking you 
to come here.” 

“Well, go ahead. I’m listening,” Boyd was really im¬ 
pressed by the man’s reasonableness. 

“You will admit,” Jarou said, quietly, “that you have 
never been notified of the death of your wife.” 

“I have never heard from her at all,” replied Boyd, des¬ 
perately. “Naturally, I believed—who wouldn’t after all 
the long years of silence—oh, how could anyone have 
treated me so cruelly! But after all these years, death may 
be assumed—legally she is dead—legally I am free to 
marry again—you know that—” 

“Your wife still lives. When you know she still lives 
could you so wrong an innocent young girl—” 

“I do not know she still lives. I have only your word for 
it.” 

“You will soon see her. She has not changed beyond 
recognition, as you will admit—” 

“I do not want to see her—ever again. She ruined my 
life—” 

“We all make mistakes. But I am not here to plead for 
her. I am thinking of little Doris Marie, who has many 
years to live and who doesn’t know what is best for her, or 
what she wants, or what she really thinks about you. Com¬ 
pared with you, she is just a baby. Are you going to take 
advantage of her ignorance? Do you think you will find 
happiness that way?” 

“What I mean to do is no concern of yours,” replied 
Boyd angrily. “I do not believe in your sudden anxiety 
for the welfare of Doris Marie. Had you really been inter¬ 
ested, why did you not interfere before matters had gone 


REJUVENATED 


209 


so far? You seem to have ways of finding out what you 
want to know.” 

“I really did not believe you’d go so far,” replied Jarou; 
“neither did your wife. Your actions are not in line with 
the man we know you to be. You are really past your sev¬ 
entieth birthday, you know.” 

“And who would believe it? Even if I told it, who would 
believe me? Oh, I could strangle you! Here and now. 
Gladly! For you’re driving me to desperation.” 

“How would it help, to strangle me? Think of your own 
actions in this matter. Think honestly. You were given a 
certain problem; you did not try to find the best way out 
—but the easiest way. You’ll admit that if you’re honest 
with yourself. You concocted an elaborate lie instead of 
admitting the truth—a truth that might have subjected you 
to some ridicule, but which would have been a boon to 
suffering humanity. You thought you had chosen the 
easiest way—but has it proven to be easy? Really the truth 
would have been less difficult. A man grows morally and 
mentally by surmounting difficulties. You have become a 
thing that you can’t respect yourself.” 

By this time they had reached a quiet little hotel where 
Hicks Jarou had found accommodation. 

“If you will come to my apartments—” Jarou said, in a 
tone of invitation; then noticing Boyd’s hesitation—“it will 
be the wisest thing you can do, I assure you. You are faced 
with a problem—better learn all you can about it before 
making your decision.” 

Boyd nodded, and followed his host. The little sitting 
room was neatly but sparsely furnished—not in any way 
attractive, and not the sort of room that one w'ould have 
expected a man like Jarou to select. Boyd remembered the 
elegantly appointed rooms he had occupied in France— 
but made no comment. He had no wish to discuss any¬ 
thing not pertinent to his present difficulty. He felt that 


210 


REJUVENATED 


the sooner he had heard what Jarou expected to do to him 
the better; then he’d know how to fight for his happiness— 
for his right to live his own life as best he could under the 
circumstances that he believed had been forced upon him. 

“Be seated,” said Jarou hospitably; “I remember that you 
do not smoke; what can I do for you? Have you learned 
to drink? I can get champagne—or—what would you 
prefer?” 

“Nothing,” replied Boyd, gruffly; “nothing from you. 
Why pretend? You are not speaking to one whom you 
consider a friend—nor am I. Let’s get down to business.” 

“May I remind you that your manner is needlessly bel¬ 
ligerent?” asked Jarou, mildly. “Nothing is gained by invit¬ 
ing animosity. After all, you know, I really did save your 
life—you see, we can’t go on without referring to that! I 
did save your life—” 

“It would have been better for me had you let me alone.” 

“You do not believe that. You love life. You do not 
want to die even now, when you have found living some¬ 
what more difficult than you like. You have asked me, ‘why 
pretend?’ Now I ask you, ‘why pretend?’ You know very 
well that you are glad to be alive. You know very well 
that if I were to speak the word that would put you back in 
your old condition—facing death from cancer—you would 
get down on your knees and beg me to save you. Be honest 
with yourself and me.” 

“But this regeneration—with all the difficulties it brought 
me,” faltered Boyd, “you must have known—” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, stop whining. Life is full of diffi¬ 
culties that we can’t know how to meet until they present 
themselves. We learn by meeting them. As I have already 
reminded you, they strengthen character. If we meet them 
bravely, they make better men of us. If we look for easy 
ways out, they weaken us and we whine—as you are doing 
now. Now let me ask you this: Do you really long to lose 


REJUVENATED 


211 


that fine crop of hair? Do you really long for the evidences 
of age from which I rescued you? You know you do not. 
You want to keep all the blessings of your present condi¬ 
tion, but you do not want to pay for them. If you had met 
the situation honestly, in the first place—” 

“Well, it appears that I did not,” interrupted Boyd, curt¬ 
ly, “and so have merited your disapproval. But let me tell 
you, I do not care that,” snapping his fingers, “what you 
think of me. And I do not admit that you have any right to 
tell me what I should or should not do. I’ve no more time 
to waste. I have the honor to wish you good-morning.” 

Boyd arose, as he said this, and was on the point of leav¬ 
ing the room when the door opened, and a lady entered. A 
tall lady, rather too thin for beauty, with gray hair plainly 
combed into a knot loosely confined at the base of the brain 
—exactly as she had worn it forty years ago. She was up¬ 
right and walked briskly and lightly across the floor. She 
held her hands out in welcome, and Boyd noticed that they 
were still beautiful, although they were the hands of an old 
woman. He knew that she was sixty-eight years old, and 
saw that although she was a well preserved woman, she 
looked her age. He could not feel that she had ever be¬ 
longed to him. He recalled their brief home life—and his 
suffering—and he hated her. In a trice his mind was made 
up. .He knew what he meant to do. No one could blame 
him for doing it. This woman meant nothing to him. She 
had cared nothing for him. She had no claim on him now. 
She should not come into his life again and bring him fur¬ 
ther misery. He meant to fight for his right to a home—for 
a wife—happiness. He would carry out his carefully made 
plans in spite of them both. What could they do when he 
stood pat? 

“Why, how do you do, Mother,” he said, taking her hand, 
and giving her cheek a good imitation of a kiss. “This is a 


212 


REJUVENATED 


great surprise. A very great surprise. You know, my father 
assured me that you were dead, and I believed it.” 

It is quite possible that never before in his long and 
remarkable career had Hicks Jarou been so deeply aston¬ 
ished as to be stunned into silence. Now, he simply stared— 
incredulous. He could not think of a word to help the aged 
woman who stood before Boyd Hunter looking quite as 
petrified with amazement, as he himself felt. 

“Why, Boyd,” she finally gasped, “I—I do not—under¬ 
stand—” 

“You are my mother,” said Boyd firmly, “the mother 
who ran away from my father, the mother whom I thought 
was dead. You deserted me soon after my birth—left me 
to make my way alone in the world—” He actually suc¬ 
ceeded in sounding scornful and almost convincing. 

“But you are not my son—it is ridiculous—you—you 
can’t make anyone believe—such—such an outrageous—lie 
as that.” 

“I have a much better chance to make anyone believe 
anything I may say, than you have to convince them I’m 
lying,” replied Boyd, sternly. He was too angry to be 
sorry for this woman whom he had once loved and who had 
made him suffer for so many years. Now he was fighting 
for his future happiness. His back was to the wall. He 
hadn’t much hope—but he’d fight to the end. So he 
thought. 

“I shall swear that you are my husband—” 

“Who will believe you—seeing us together? You look 
old enough to be my mother. And when I declare that you 
are my poor old mother—slightly demented—you can guess 
which one of us is most likely to be believed.” 

“You have evidently forgotten me,” interposed Hicks 
Jarou. “I can add to your wife’s testimony an account of 
what I did to rejuvenate you—” 


REJUVENATED 


213 


“Yes,” asked Boyd, with cruel cynicism, “and who will 
believe you, when I swear that it is a lie? How many other 
patients have you who will come forward to support your 
story? Rejuvenation is a matter of experiment among the 
scientists of today. Some quite remarkable things have 
been done—but can you name one man among all those 
who are experimenting who would accept the story you 
would tell them about me? They would laugh at you. They 
would say it couldn’t be done. They would say you were 
a candidate for the lunatic asylum. And you’d find that 
unpleasant opinion equally strong should you tell them 
about curing cancer of the liver. No one would believe you. 
Doctors are not ready to accept your methods. They’d 
be glad to see you safely locked away, and I’d give them 
my most cordial assistance.” 

“I really think you are right about that,” replied Hicks 
Jarou, genially. “I refer to what the doctors would say.” 

“I know I am right about it. That’s where I win—in this 
controversy. I am determined that you shall not spoil my 
life—not absolutely, at any rate.” 

“Then you mean,” asked Mrs. Hunter, “to stand by your 
absurd story?” 

“So far as I can see, there is nothing left for me to do 
except to stand by it. Unless I commit suicide—and I’ve 
decided against that.” 

“But if I go home—call upon the old friends—they will 
remember me—” 

“Undoubtedly. Go back—if you wish. I shall introduce 
you as my mother. If you try to convince them that you 
are my wife, I shall take you before a commission in 
lunacy—I am not without influence as you will learn. I am 
recognized as the son of my father—and he is remembered 
as a man of honor. In spite of your attempt to wreck his 
life—my life—Boyd Hunter earned the respect of all who 
knew him.” 


214 


REJUVENA TED 


“But how does that affect you—now that you call your¬ 
self Boyd Hunter’s son?” 

“Boyd Hunter prepared for this emergency very care¬ 
fully. He wrote letters to his lawyer—to his old secretary 
also—preparing the way for his son. Those letters will 
have greater weight than anything you—the wife who 
deserted her husband—can possibly say.” 

“I’m not so sure of that. Our old friends have not heard 
my story.” 

“It comes too late to be effective. They all know that 
your husband lived an exemplary life after you ran away. If 
you return I have only to say that both he and I believed 
you to be dead—that you disappeared a second time, leav¬ 
ing your little son—” 

“You would dare treat me like that. You would!” 

“Why not? I owe you nothing. Think how you have 
treated me. So far as I am concerned, you died many years 
ago. But,—if you care to acknowledge yourself as my 
mother, I will support you comfortably—but not in 
America.” 

“Thank you, Boyd,” was the quiet response; “I am 
abundantly able to support myself. And you cannot dictate 
terms to me.” 

“Nor can you dictate terms to me,” replied Boyd hotly, “If 
you attempt it—with the help of your very good friend, here, 
let me warn you that I shall put up a pretty vigorous fight.” 

“But about that young girl, Boyd—let’s consider her— 
calmly—” 

“She is a part of my life that does not concern you. In other 
and plainer words, it is none of your damned business.” 

“Suppose your wife decided to apply for a divorce?” sug¬ 
gested Hicks Jarou. 

“On what grounds? Even if I proclaimed myself the hus¬ 
band she deserted, she’d find it difficult to procure an attorney. 
I lived a decent life all those years after she left me—those 


REJUVENATED 


215 


lonely, lonely years—she has no grounds for divorce. And as 
things are now—well, you can see for yourself it would only 
mean the insane asylum for her if she interferes with me, 
now. I hope I’ll not be forced to take that step.” 

Hicks Jarou looked nonplussed. The interview had not run 
along the lines he had expected it to. Boyd’s behavior since 
his rejuvenation had not been such that anyone could have 
foretold resistance so vigorous and unexpected—unless one 
had made a study of the worms that had been known to turn. 

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Hunter, “it looks as if efforts to pre¬ 
vent what seems to me a great wrong have been useless.” 

“Belated efforts,” sneered Boyd. “Your very wise friend,” 
with a scornful glance at Hicks Jarou, “should have warned 
you of their inefficiency. You are thirty years too late to hope 
to influence my life.” 

“You always did do as you pleased without regard to the 
wishes or preferences or rights of anyone else,” retorted his 
wife. “I should have remembered that—-I did, really—but I 
hoped time might have softened you—made you more just—” 

“I think we need not continue this conversation,” inter¬ 
rupted Boyd coldly. He went to the door, then turned to face 
Jarou. “The charming interview is concluded, is it not?” he 
asked, with biting sarcasm. 

“For the present,” replied Jarou, bowing very low. “I bid you 
farewell, and hope your journey home may be to your liking.” 

There was a tone in the silky voice, an expression in the 
sardonic eyes, that sent cold chills down Boyd’s spine. He 
felt a premonition of disaster—but he would not heed it. He 
had scored. They had tried to ruin his plans, and he had 
proven to them that they could not do it. He marvelled at the 
facility he had shown in meeting their unexpected attack— 
how had he happened to think of all the arguments he had 
used to convince them that he would not allow them to in¬ 
fluence him—arguments that they simply could not ignore ? 


216 


REJUVENA TED 


When Boyd left the hotel he felt almost as if he were walk¬ 
ing on air. He had scored. Why shouldn’t he feel well satisfied 
with himself? He had given both of his tormentors exactly 
what they deserved. He had been ruthless—and that pleased 
him. They had seen that he was not to be trifled with. Then he 
recalled his manner of leaving—nothing cut-and-run about it— 
a dignified exit. He had nodded curtly to them both before 
leaving the room, and that was all. He had not deigned to look 
back, even after he left the hotel. And so he did not know that 
Hicks Jarou had also nodded—but not to him—and that a little 
dark man whom he had not seen in the room was following him 
—following as silently as his shadow. 

Boyd walked slowly, debating his next move. He could not 
return to New York—not just yet. He had to think things out 
—alone and uninterrupted. And he had no wish to go to any 
hotel where he might be recognized. He sought and found a 
little place as obscure as that which housed his wife and Hicks 
Jarou, and registered under an assumed name. He went to 
his room, threw himself into the easiest chair the room af¬ 
forded, and set himself to solve the toughest problem he had 
ever encountered. 


What was he to do? He couldn’t sue for divorce without 
revealing all he had worked so strenuously to conceal. He 
couldn’t marry Doris Marie without getting a divorce. Not¬ 
withstanding his brave talk about his wife being dead to him— 
dead legally—he knew he couldn’t marry again without a di¬ 
vorce. He wasn’t that kind of a man. He prided himself on 
being absolutely law-abiding. Evidently Mary, his wife, had 
remembered that and counted on it. Well, he was glad he had 
disappointed her. Whatever he decided to do about Doris 
Marie, he would do without their advice, encouragement or 
assistance. 


REJUVENATED 


21 7 


Now about Doris Marie—and their plans for the future? 
Should he tell her? Or should he keep his secret—run away 
for a year or two until she made other arrangements—cut and 
run; cut and run! Would she stand by him when his duplic¬ 
ity had been made public? Would she care to have anything 
more to do with him ? He didn’t believe she would. 

Could he go back and reveal the truth? If he had only told 
the truth in the first place it would have been easier. He was 
sure he couldn’t do so now. But he must. There was no other 
way. He must go back—his business was there—the only thing 
he had to live for, now. He must go back, break off his engage¬ 
ment with Doris Marie—endure all the hard things that would 
be said of him as a consequence. He would become a recluse in 
so far as society was concerned, giving himself strictly to his 
business. He didn’t care a damn what anyone said about him. 
He’d go back—and he’d discharge Stafford—and he’d close all 
but three of the rooms in his remodelled house, and he’d live 
in those rooms with the Jap—and that was that. Should he 
take the night train to New York? There was still time to 
make it. 

The one bell boy the little hotel afforded brought in a note. 
It was from Hicks Jarou. How did the man know where he 
was staying? How did he guess the assumed name under 
which he had registered ? 

“If you leave Boston without seeing me again,” he read, 
“all the morning papers will carry the following news item: 
Mr. Boyd Hunter of New York, who came to Boston to meet 
the wife from whom he has been estranged for many years, 
returned to New York today.” 

That was all. It was enough. Boyd decided to postpone his 
departure until a later date. He would not take the night 
train to New York. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“I don’t like your plan a little bit.” Mrs. Hunter’s voice was 
decisive—her eyes and mouth more so. “I don’t like it at all,” 
she continued. “I never have been able to believe that anyone 
has a right to interfere in another’s life.” 

“Your reason?” asked Hicks Jarou, lazily. He was smiling 
inscrutably, yet politely, and he did not appear at all affronted 
by the emphatic manner in which Mrs. Hunter was denouncing 
his plan. 

“No one can say,” replied Mrs. Hunter, energetically, “what 
another person was sent into this world to do—yet we are 
always judging and always preaching and always trying to use 
influence to change another’s plans—” 

“And always interfering one way or another,” added Hicks 
Jarou. “Can you tell me how humanity can avoid that? Now 
you have the best of ideas on this subject, and you are a very 
earnest woman—yet you interfered with your husband’s life 
most decisively when you left him. Please hear me out,” as 
Mrs. Hunter sought to defend her action; “I know that your 
act in leaving him changed his life very materially, and it did 
not make a better man of him. He became a cynic. Many of 
his old neighbors declare that you ruined his life in so far as 
any hope of happiness is concerned. They say he never again 
acted like a man who knew the meaning of the word. He 
simply couldn’t find any way to build up even a makeshift 
home life for himself, and he went on living a life that was 
the merest existence in the old home. You left him because you 
believed such a move was necessary to your happiness. You 
did not think what it would mean to him. You were thinking 
only of yourself. Boyd is now thinking only of himself. He is 
hoping he may have a few years of happiness before he dies. 
Our interview with him today has effected further change— 

218 


REJUVENATED 


219 


greater than he realizes—and so, you see, you and I have 
interfered again. Between us he has had a rather raw deal.” 

“Poor Boyd. Of course I did not realize, when I left him— 
in fact, I really believed that he’d not miss me very greatly. I 
can’t believe, even after hearing what you say, that he did 
miss me. Boyd was always quite sufficient unto himself. He 
probably gave me all he had to give any woman, but he was a 
hard man to live with. But I hate the thought that I must 
spoil his life—and yet—” 

“You believed he should know you were still living.” 

“I couldn’t let him marry that young girl—that would have 
been monstrous. I thought we were doing right—” 

“But we interfered in his life most decidedly, and we have 
arrived at a point where further interference has become abso¬ 
lutely essential in order that a young girl shall be saved from 
unmerited ignominy. In a way, he has himself to blame—” 
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Hunter angrily, “if he had prom¬ 
ised not to go on with his plans, as I believed he would do—” 
“But what sort of happiness did that leave him? We must 
look at it from his viewpoint and not judge him too severely. 
I’m mighty sorry for the poor cuss. Had I known that you 
were still living, I would not have tried out my rejuvenation 
process; but I did not know, and I really thought I was doing 
him a favor.” 

“dr almost wish we had not interfered. Perhaps it might have 
been better to leave him in ignorance—” 

“You do not believe that. You believe this act of ours was 
right, and if so we must believe that our interference was justi¬ 
fiable, and if we believe that, we must go on with our plans 
and make it impossible for Boyd to marry that little girl. I 
think you agree with me, do you not?” 

“I don’t know. The most I know is that I’m very unhappy 
about it. Still, I do think it was right to let Boyd know that 
I am still his wife.” She remained quiet a moment, thinking, 


220 


REJUVENA TED 


then: “It is an awful thing to suggest, I suppose, but couldn’t 
we let the matter rest?” 

“Let him marry the girl?” 

“If he decides to become a bigamist, are we to blame—after 
having told him about me? And he might go somewhere and 
get a divorce—” 

“He could hardly do that, as he has said. Such things are 
never kept secret for very long. I’m sure he has no intention 
of doing it.” 

“We might warn the girl not to marry him—” 

“She is not the type to be moved from her course by an 
anonymous letter. She is headstrong and independent—” 

“And Boyd is stubborn. If she showed him the letter, he’d 
just hasten the wedding. I don’t know what to do.” 

“I think you should carry out the plan we’ve outlined. And 
I truly believe your husband will live to thank you. For his 
own sake, he should be restrained.” 

“Restrained! It is that part of the plan which troubles me. 
I can’t feel that anyone has a right to restrain another.” 

“That is a question that our greatest lawmakers settled long 
ago. They believed there must be restraint, under certain con¬ 
ditions, for the good of humanity—and the person to be re¬ 
strained never had much to say in the matter. He was a men¬ 
ace—therefore restrained. Your husband has become a men¬ 
ace to a young girl—he flouts the marriage laws of the coun¬ 
try, therefore he must be restrained until he has had time to 
think it over.” 

“But we constitute ourselves judges—” 

“Judges, lawyers, court, everything,” replied Jarou, “and we 
do it, hoping thereby to circumvent Dame Gossip. I dislike 
this quite as much as you do—but I interfered in Boyd’s life 
more cruelly than I realized when I rejuvenated him—and 
now I feel that I must pay by doing something that I despise. 
I must think not only of him, but of that girl—of the innocent 
children that she and Boyd might bring into the world—of the 


REJUVENA TED 


221 


girl’s poor old worried parents—oh, believe me, Mrs. Hunter, 
you and I have a very disagreeable duty to perform; and be¬ 
cause of what we have already done for our pleasure—you in 
leaving him—I in rejuvenating him—we can’t ignore the con¬ 
sequent duty.” 

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Hunter, “perhaps you are right. Any¬ 
how, we won’t do him any real harm—and we’ll be giving him 
one more chance to set himself free from the false position in 
which he is now living. What do you want me to do ?” 

“First, we’ll pack and send our baggage to the steamer. Our 
staterooms are engaged. I’ll settle the bills at once. Then, ten 
minutes after I leave this hotel to go to your husband, you are 
to call him on the phone and engage him in conversation. Im¬ 
mediately after he hangs up the receiver, you are to take a 
taxi and go down to the wharf. Better go aboard at once, and 
stay in your stateroom until I call you.” 


Boyd still sprawled in the only easy chair the room afforded 
and that was not easy. Why had he come to such a place? He 
wasn’t fleeing from justice. Why had he not Written his own 
name on the hotel register, instead of John Jones? Why had 
he acted as if he must hide from everyone he knew ? “Cut and 
run; cut and run”—the silly refrain rang through his brain 
until it almost maddened him. Doris Marie had sized him up 
correctly—he always looked for the easiest way out of diffi¬ 
culties. And how was he to meet this latest trouble? What 
could he do? Was there an easy way out of this situation? 
If so, he’d like some one to show it to him. What was in store 
for him—some other unguessed disaster? Why was Jarou so 
determined to see him again? What did that woman, who 
had been his wife, want him to do? Of course Jarou was in 
her employ—but for what purpose? Did she think he would 
ever take her back? She ought to know better than to expect 
that. No matter what she might do to him she could never 


222 


REJUVENATED 


force him to live with her again, or to recognize her in any way 
as his wife. He hated her. He hated her almost as heartily as 
he hated Hicks Jarou, and that was saying much. 

The phone bell was sounding. Should he answer? Was he 
about to be told of some new misery to be endured? Was 
Jarou announcing his arrival—or summoning him back to his 
hotel ? 

“Well,” he called through the phone, and his voice was ugly, 
“who is it—and what do you want ?” 

“It is I, Boyd; won’t you talk to me a minute ?” It was 
Mary. Her voice trembled, as if she were close to tears; it was 
appealing, and yet it added to his anger. It made him feel par¬ 
ticularly upset because it sounded so like the voice he recalled 
—the voice he had once considered the sweetest in the world. 
But he didn’t think so now, and Mary needn’t think she could 
win him over by staging any emotional stunts. 

“All right—talk,” he replied, savagely; “but make it short, 
please; I’m in no mood for conversation.” 

“Boyd, couldn’t you come over here to see me—alone!” 

“I have not the slightest wish to see you.” 

“But I have something to tell you—something of impor¬ 
tance to you.” 

“Well, I’m listening.” 

“Oh, Boyd, please come. Please. I’d so like to tell you— 
I’d like to warn you, but it’s hard to talk over a phone. Come 
for five minutes, won’t you? It would be so much easier to tell 
you if you were here, and could see that I want to be your 
friend.” 

“I have no desire for your friendship, and I most certainly 
shall not leave this room tonight. I’m going to bed—in five 
minutes.” 

“Will you promise to call tomorrow morning—early?” 

“No. I have no intention of calling. I do not want to see 
you. I’m quite sure you have nothing to tell me that I care to 
hear.” 


REJUVEN A TED 


223 


“You are very hard, Boyd, aren’t you?” 

“You gave me reason enough to be hard where you are 
concerned.” 

“But Boyd—I know I did wrong—but I didn’t think so at 
the time. Honestly, I did not think so. I could explain—if 
you’d only let me. I had a reason—I’m sure if you knew all 
you wouldn’t feel quite as angry as you do now.” 

“What difference does it make—to either of us—how angry 
I am.” 

“It makes a difference with me.” 

“It must—after all these years.” 

“Boyd, don’t hang up — Just a minute, Boyd — please — 
please! I really have something important to tell you—” 

“All right; tell it.” 

“I can’t—over the phone—won’t you promise—” 

“No. Didn’t you hear me say I would never see you again, 
if I could help it? If you’ve got anything more to say, say it 
now. I shall not be here tomorrow.” 

“Where do you expect to be? I might write to the old ad¬ 
dress, if you’re going back.” 

“Don’t write. I don’t want to hear from you. Why do 
you persist in adding to my misery. Haven’t you done 
enough—” 

The door opened softly and Hicks Jarou, accompanied by the 
small, dark man, who had brought. Boyd a note earlier in the 
evening, slipped into the room. Boyd turned to face Jarou, and 
the little man stepped behind him so quickly that he did not 
see him at all. 

“Get out,” commanded Boyd angrily. “What right have 
you to break into my room—” 

“Your door was not locked,” said Jarou, softly, as he re¬ 
placed the telephone receiver that Boyd had left hanging. 

“Get out, this minute, before I kill you,” shouted Boyd. 

As he spoke, he started toward Jarou, as if he really meant 
to kill him. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he might, without really 


224 


REJUVENATED 


having intended to do so, for he was furiously angry—quite 
beyond reason. Many murders have been committed in just 
that way—without having been planned by the murderer—who 
must spend the remainder of his days wondering how he 
happened to do it. But Boyd was not destined to become a 
murderer either wittingly or unwittingly. The small dark man 
sprang into the air, like a cat, landed on Boyd’s shoulders, and 
thrust something into his mouth just as he opened it to scream 
for help. For a long, dark moment Boyd had the feeling that 
he was a little black speck in the center of an overpowering 
dazzling light through which he could not fight his way to 
safety. He realized that he had been given some very efficient 
anaesthetic—that he must fight for breath—that he was falling 
—falling—falling—and then he knew nothing more. 

“We’ll make him swallow this,” said Hicks Jarou, as they 
laid Boyd on the floor. “It will begin to take effect by the 
time he recovers consciousness. Hold his mouth open. Pour 
it in a drop at a time, so as not to choke him. There. That’s 
very nice. He isn’t going to give us a bit of trouble.” 

A half hour later, Jarou appeared before the hotel clerk, who 
was trying to keep awake behind his desk, and making a poor 
job of it. 

“My friend in room fifteen,” said Jarou, pleasantly, and yet 
in a tone of anxiety— 

“Do you mean John Jones?” asked the clerk. 

“Yes, John Jones.” 

“It’s late. I don’t believe he’ll see you—but I’ll find out.” 
He went to the phone as he spoke, but Jarou interposed. 

“My good man,” he said, “I really believe you have been 
asleep. I have been with Mr. Jones for an hour.” 

“You have? I didn’t see you come in.” 

“You were not on duty when I came in. Mr. Jones was not 
feeling well and sent for me, and I came over at once. I am a 
doctor. I’m sorry to tell you that I fear my friend is coming 
down with smallpox.” 


REJUVEN A TED 


225 


“Smallpox,” gasped the clerk; “why, he can’t have smallpox 
here.” 

“Of course not,” agreed Jarou. “That would mean quaran¬ 
tine—” 

“It would ruin our business. Wait. I’ll call up the boss—” 

“No need to do that,” said Jarou, in his pleasantest and 
most efficient manner. “We’ll just call a taxi and take Mr. 
Jones away, and none of your guests need know anything about 
it. Tomorrow you can fumigate his room, and there’ll be 
absolutely no danger to anyone. You can take my word for 
that.” 

The clerk was very grateful. He was willing to do anything 
to get rid of Mr. Jones. The taxi was called. Mr. Jones was 
helped downstairs by the doctor and his assistant. The clerk 
carried the poor man’s baggage. He noticed that the patient 
did not seem to realize where he was or what he was doing. The 
doctor said he was delirious—too ill to walk without assistance 
—and he appeared to be very ill indeed. The clerk had not 
known that smallpox could take so sudden a turn for the worse. 
It was good to have the man out of the house. And as the 
doctor had paid his bill, the boss could find no fault. 


Again Boyd Hunter crossed the ocean without feeling any 
of the pangs of mal de mer. He had a faint recollection, when 
he tried to get his thoughts straightened out later on, that he 
must have been on a steamship, and well cared for, and that 
the trip occupied several days. He slept most of the time, and 
was glad of the rest. He seemed to feel that he had passed 
through some severe trial, and had, perhaps, gone about as far 
as he could without an attack of nervous prostration. Perhaps 
he was already suffering from that trouble; he did not know or 
care. He was comfortable. Sometimes a man came into his 
cabin to care for him; sometimes it was a woman with a sweet, 
rather plaintive voice, a voice that he seemed to have heard 


226 


REJUVENATED 


hundreds of years ago. He didn’t care enough to try to remem¬ 
ber. He just wanted to lie still and sleep. 

When Boyd finally regained consciousness, it was to find 
himself in a very attractive bedroom done in shades of old 
rose—and a bouquet of fragrant roses stood on a table beside 
his bed. He looked about him curiously. There was a framed 
photograph standing on the dresser. It looked familiar—why, 
it was one he had given his wife just before they were married! 
They both thought it was the best picture he’d ever had taken. 
They had gone together to select the frame—and there had 
been a photograph of her in a frame to match—where was 
that ? Oh, that! He remembered now. He had thrown that 
into a box in the attic of the old place, not so long after his 
wife had left him. It had made him so angry—he’d decided to 
get it out of his sight. He was beginning to remember—many 
things. The meeting with his wife who had looked so un¬ 
believably old—the talk with her over the phone—the fight 
in that little hotel room with Hicks Jarou—how had that 
ended—Why—why damn the man he had kidnapped him! He 
had brought him here. Where? He heard voices under his 
window—servants chattering in French—now he knew—he 
had been brought back to France. Kidnapped, drugged and 
brought to France! That was an outrage for which some one 
would pay dearly. He’d get even with that man Jarou if it 
took him the remainder of his life. He’d get even—but how? 
Suddenly Boyd began to feel very helpless. He recalled his 
satisfaction after having talked with Jarou and his wife in that 
hotel—after having convinced them that they had no power 
over him. He thought he had convinced them. They had seemed 
to agree with him—and then they had kidnapped him and 
carted him away like a useless old scarecrow. Boyd felt in¬ 
creasingly helpless, as he tried to analyze the situation, and to 
guess what was still in store for him. 

Why had he been brought here? What did Jarou plan to do 
to him now? Make him over again? Make him look his age? 


REJUVENATED 


22 7 


He had said, once, that he couldn’t do that. Had he since 
learned how to do it, and did he propose to practice on him? 
Could he do it? If so, did he, Boyd Hunter, want to be made 
to look his age ?—no, not really. He wanted to be let alone. 

Boyd glanced about the room hoping to see his clothes. 
He wanted to get up—to dress—to meet the enemy and van¬ 
quish him—to go back home—but more than all else he wanted 
something to eat. He was famished. He’d hunt up a cafe— 

There were no garments to be found—not even a bath robe. 
There was a locked door that probably led into a closet. This 
was evidently a woman’s room. Doubtless the closet held her 
garments. A little bell stood on the table. Perhaps it had been 
left there for his use. He’d find out. 

He rang the bell, and it brought him the greatest surprise 
he had ever known. A young man entered—a graceful young 
man who walked with a little spring as if he could hardly 
keep his feet on the floor—a handsome young man of about 
thirty years with a thatch of curly red hair—a young man who 
looked so much like himself that it made him gasp as if he had 
been thrown head first into a tub of ice water. 

“Who. in God’s name, are you?” gasped Boyd, raising him¬ 
self on one elbow and staring at his visitor as if he were seeing 
a ghost. 

“No one to be afraid of, Dad,” said the young man, grinning 
in a most engaging manner; “I’m just your son, Boyd Hunter, 
Junior.” 

“My son! But of course I’m dreaming. I’ve never had a 
son.” He pinched himself to make sure that he was awake. 
“I must be delirious,” he added, “and you are—you must be— 
a sort of wraith.” 

“Wraith nothing,” laughed the young man. “Feel that,” 
extending his arm and flexing the muscle rather vaingloriously. 
“Think a wraith would have an arm like that?” 

“Tell me truly,” begged Boyd, “who are you?” 


228 


REJUVENA TED 


“I’m your son; honest, Dad. You’ve got to believe it sooner 
or later—eventually, why not now ?” He grinned again. 
“Mother had to go out for a little while,” he continued, “and 
she left me here to look after you. Guess I’m a darned poor 
nurse. The way I broke the good news—it was too sudden to 
be comfortable, wasn’t it? Mother had planned to tell you and 
make you like it—” here the young man laughed again; “she’d 
have done it a little more tactfully. You see, she had not 
expected you’d wake up quite so soon. She told me that you 
had never been notified of my arrival, and she didn’t know how 
you’d like having a son thrown at your head—as it were. 
Please try not to look upon me as one more calamity.” 

“I can’t disown you,” murmured Boyd, reflectively. “You 
must be speaking the truth. Very likely you are my son—as 
you say. You look as I did—” 

“Better say as you do,” interrupted the young man. “We 
are as alike as two peas. It’s astonishing. We’d be taken for 
twins anywhere. Say, Dad, I don’t care, if you don’t. Hold on 
—don’t faint! You look all in—what can I do for you?” 

“Kindly leave me alone for a little while,” begged the 
bewildered man. “I’ll be all right—just a little confused you 
know—got to think. This makes me actually ill.” 

“Poor Dad; I don’t wonder at it. I had to come in when you 
rang—I didn’t know what else to do. Please buck up. Don’t 
let this hit you too hard.” 

The young man patted his father’s shoulder and left the 
room, turning at the door to throw him a friendly grin. Even 
the poor bewildered father had to admit that he was the most 
engaging sort of young man, with a grin that was actually in¬ 
fectious. 

“And so,” thought Boyd Hunter, “it wasn’t a lie after all— 
at least not as much of a lie as I had believed I was telling. The 
boy’s mother may have left home while suffering from some 
mental trouble due to pregnancy, just as I let folks think. 
Doubtless that is what she had tried to tell me—over the 


REJUVENATED 


229 


phone—what I refused to hear. But why did she not tell me 
of the birth of the boy in the first place? I must find out 
about that.” 

Then Boyd began to wonder how he could have spent hours 
inventing a lie that was no lie at all ? How had he happened to 
make his story so like the facts in the case? Had Jarou told him 
something, while he lay, only partially conscious, in that sani¬ 
tarium—had he told him something that lingered in his mem¬ 
ory, and furnished the material for the story he had so care¬ 
fully put together? If so, might there not be some excuse for 
his conduct? Could he be considered simply an unmitigated 
liar? If he’d been hypnotized, and the story had been told him 
—and Hicks Jarou would admit it—why then he could get out 
of this mess without despising himself as a falsifier—and it did 
seem as if the necessary readjustment would be a little less 
difficult. 

Boyd’s privacy was again interrupted—this time by the 
unannounced entrance of his wife, who walked in as casually as 
she would have done had she never separated herself from 
her husband. 

“Boydie told me you were awake,” she said, “and that he had 
talked with you. I am sorry he had to introduce himself. 
He is a nice boy, isn’t he ?” 

“Why was I never told about him,” demanded Boyd, in¬ 
stantly belligerent. 

“For one reason,” replied his wife, “I was afraid you would 
try to take him away from me.” 

“Couldn’t you have come back and brought him to his own 
home ? Couldn’t we have lived together as soon as you had re¬ 
covered from the nervous disorder brought on by pregnancy?” 

“I suppose my condition did have something to do with my 
leaving you,” replied Mrs. Hunter, “but it was not entirely re¬ 
sponsible. When I left you I did not know I was to have a 
child. Had I known I should not have gone. But having made 
the break—it didn’t seem to me that I could ever return.” 


230 


REJUVENA TED 


“Why not?” 

“I was not happy in your home—not after the first month. 
I was desperately lonely. You gave yourself to your business 
so closely that when you came home you were too tired to visit 
with me. You were too tired to take me anywhere. You were 
too tired to have guests. And you were often too cross to be a 
comfortable companion. You never told me about your busi¬ 
ness, or anything that interested you. I felt that I was nothing 
more than a working housekeeper in your home, and I decided 
that I might do the same amount of work in some other home, 
get paid for doing it, have time off to run around with other 
girls—in fact, make a life for myself that would seem to me 
better worth living.” 

“I see,” grunted Boyd, “and I didn’t count at all.” 

“I really did not believe you would miss me. You had your 
business—” 

“I was working hard to build up that business so that I 
might buy things for you—” 

“When I was too old to care whether I had them or not. I 
wanted companionship—” 

“Well, you seem to have found it. Where did you pick up old 
Jarou?” 

“Oh, I’ve only known him a little while. He chanced to see 
Boydie on the street, one day, thought he was you—and fol¬ 
lowed him home. I was amazed enough when he told me why 
he thought Boydie was you. I’d read about regeneration, of 
course—” 

“Let’s not talk of that—now. Tell me how you managed— 
when you knew there was to be a child—my son, that I was 
not to know about.” 

“I found a position as clerk—did so well that I was taken 
in as partner, was so much liked by my partner that she willed 
me her share when she died. That was ten years ago. Boydie 
helps me with the business, now. Boyd, I wish you would be¬ 
lieve me when I tell you that I’m very happy because you have 


REJUVENATED 


231 


at last met your son. He is a fine boy. I’ve brought him up as 
carefully as I knew how.” 

“You had no right to keep me in ignorance—” 

“I know that. I often felt that it was unfair to the boy— 
but I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid you’d take him 
from me—and I am very sure you would have tried to.” 

“I most certainly should—but I’d have tried to get you to 
come with us.” 

“And I’ve never wanted to go back—into the kitchen. Of 
course, I’ve always said I’d go back—some day—for I knew 
you must be told you had a son—some day before we both died. 
But your home always seemed like a prison—I couldn’t think 
of it in any other way—and so I kept putting off the day—and 
of course I couldn’t write until I meant to go back—and time 
flew by so fast. And then came Jarou, and he told me about 
you—and later he came again and told me you were to be 
married—Boyd, can’t you understand that I had to prevent 
that for the sake of our son?” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Dicky and Joe-Anne were keeping house in Dicky’s studio— 
a very light variety of light housekeeping, since they had pur¬ 
chased nothing new, and Dicky’s housekeeping equipment was 
decidedly sketchy. 

“I don’t believe you can make it work,” he told Joe-Anne. 
“You’ll get discouraged and downhearted and our joy will be 
smashed to smithereens.” 

“When it is thus smashed,” retorted Joe-Anne, grinning, 
“you’ll be the little smasher that does the job. You’ll begin 
by complaining about something, and I’ll not stand for a very 
large dose of criticism, and so the fireworks will get started.” 

“We’re married, and I presume there’ll be duties of hos¬ 
pitality that can’t be ignored—” 

“See here, Dicky, you managed to get your own meals and 
as I remember, you did considerable entertaining as well. Now 
my idea is that we can go on as you began—provided we don’t 
try to emulate some one else. Let’s be independent about it. 
If our friends want to come to see us, let them come as they 
did before we were married. We’re not trying to impress any¬ 
one. We’re poor. We’re not going to act as if we were rich. 
We’re going to learn how to save a little of what we have, 
and we’re going to have a lot of fun doing it. We don’t care 
a tinker’s darn what anyone thinks about our style of house¬ 
keeping, as long as we are happy and independent.” 

What these two young people had was little enough, accord¬ 
ing to present day values. They might have had help from their 
respective parents, but they preferred to carve out their own 
destiny. Joe-Anne adored difficult situations, and exulted over 
every little victory. She had the spirit of a conqueror, and a 
sense of humor that lightened what otherwise might have worn 
a drab hue. Dicky didn’t care anything about appearances. He 

232 


REJUVENATED 


233 


didn’t need much in the way of luxuries—but he liked to be 
comfortable. His parents were well-to-do; but he had left 
home because his father was determined to take his son into 
business with himself, and Dicky was determined to win fame 
as a cartoonist. The father was delighted to hear of his son’s 
marriage, believing that it would lead to the boy’s return to the 
office. “He’ll soon find out,” said the father, comfortably, 
“that he can’t support a wife on what he can earn—and when 
he comes back he’ll be received with open arms.” 

“If only I could have helped give them a nice wedding,” 
sighed Dicky’s mother. “They never bought one new thing to 
get married in, and Joe-Anne didn’t let anyone give her a wed¬ 
ding present—said they might feel that they had to ‘pay back’ 
at a time when they wouldn’t be able to do it—” 

“Darned sensible about that,” interrupted Dicky’s father. 
“The boy showed a lot of sense, I’d say, when it came to pick¬ 
ing a wife.” 

“But a wife who wouldn’t take wedding presents, and 
wouldn’t buy a wedding gown, and wouldn’t have a honeymoon 
that a son like ours could easily have given her, if he’d only 
consulted us—and who has gone to housekeeping in a bare little 
studio—why, how do you expect her to let Dicky go into busi¬ 
ness with you. As I see it, she’s the kind to let Dicky do pretty 
much as he wants to—and she married him knowing that he 
wants to be a cartoonist.” 

“Wait until we hear that a little grandchild is on the way,” 
advised Dicky’s father. “Nothing makes a man long for the 
fleshpots like that. He’ll want everything money can buy when 
he faces that fact, you may be jolly sure of that—-and a posi¬ 
tion in my office with a good fat salary attached will look very 
different to him from what it does now.” 

“Maybe,” replied the wife doubtfully. “I hope you’re right 
—but I’ve seen Joe-Anne—and she looks so—so capable. I be¬ 
lieve she’d even manage to become a mother—as the very poor 
do—and make a joke of it.” 


234 


REJUVENA TED 


“As the poor do not,” added the father. “Don’t you worry, 
mother, but take my word for it. Dicky’s marriage is the one 
thing that will bring my boy back into my business.” 

When Doris Marie first heard of Joe-Anne’s marriage, she 
declared that she would never speak to either one of them 
again. She felt that neither Joe-Anne nor Dicky had a right 
to run away and get married without telling her of their in¬ 
tentions—and to do it on the very day when she was expecting 
Dicky to escort her to a party—it really wasn’t a friendly 
thing to do. But her affair with Bert Baldwin—begun just to 
“save her face” as she expressed it—was proving much more 
interesting than she had expected it would be, and that helped 
her to get over her “just indignation”—again we quote her— 
and profess herself as ready and willing to forgive her enemies. 
Besides, she was exceedingly curious as to housekeeping ar¬ 
rangements in Dicky’s studio. She knew it simply couldn’t be 
done—but Joe-Anne had a way of accomplishing things that 
everyone knew were impossible, and Doris Marie’s curiosity 
demanded a visit to the studio. She decided not to acquaint her 
friends with her intentions, but take them by surprise. She 
wouldn’t give Joe-Anne an opportunity to dust the furniture 
and get ready to receive her, and pretend that her housekeep¬ 
ing was always as well done as she found it. And so she went 
without an invitation, and entered without knocking—as she 
had done before Dicky was married. 

“Helloa, there,” she said, quite casually. “Eating? Got 
enough for me?” 

“Well, Doris Marie, you mean thing, to drop in like this— 
and you’re an old dear to do it! Shows you have faith in my 
housekeeping. We’re having tomatoes on toast, and there’s 
plenty for you. I was going to use what was left to make 
escalloped tomatoes for tomorrow, but now there won’t be any 
left and I can think up something else.” 

Dicky shook hands as cordially as if he had never done 
a thing to merit her disapproval, and drew up a chair for her 


REJUVENATED 


235 


at the little folding table. “Shall I get you a plate,” he asked, 
“or will you get it for yourself as per usual?” 

“I’ll be waited upon, if you please,” replied Doris Marie— 
“just as if I’d been invited—as I should have been and wasn’t. 
What’s in the covered dish?” 

“Scrambled eggs with a symptom of boiled ham,” replied 
Dicky. “Hold up your plate; guess I can scrape together a 
spoonful for you.” 

They had a jolly half hour together, then Dicky excused 
himself and went into his den. “Got a job to finish,” he said, 
“and when I get paid for it we’ll have to divide it five ways—” 

“Wrong there, Dicky,” interrupted Joe-Anne; “you won’t 
divide it at all; you’ll just hand it over to me.” Then, turning 
to Doris Marie, “Dicky couldn’t buy as much comfort with 
ten dollars as I can with five, and so I’ve elected myself treas¬ 
urer of this company.” 

“Do you have to economize dreadfully?” asked Doris Marie 
when she and Joe-Anne had the room to themselves. 

“We pinch every penny,” replied Joe-Anne, happily. “It is 
the most exciting sport I’ve ever taken part in. I read cook¬ 
books from morning until night trying to get the necessary 
number of vitamins and calories into our food, and each day 
save a few pennies from the sum the previous day demanded. 
The few pennies saved go right into the bank, and there’s 
where^we find our wildest excitement—adding the dollar de¬ 
posits in our bank book.” 

“Thought you spoke in terms of pennies a moment ago?” 

“Yes; we have a child’s bank where we park the pennies, 
and when they amount to a dollar they go into the savings bank 
and when we get a hundred dollars together, we’re going to 
buy a bond—” 

“What kind of bond ?” 

“Don’t know, yet. I’m studying up about bonds—so I’ll be 
ready when the hundred dollars materialize. It’s stacks of fun, 
Doris Marie.” 


236 


REJUVENATED 


“It wouldn’t be fun for me. I want a home—and a maid to 
do the work that I don’t like to do—and I shouldn’t care to 
count pennies, especially when I wanted a good juicy steak for 
dinner.” 

“We afford steak once in two weeks; we don’t need it 
oftener than that—and when we get it only that often we 
enjoy it as we shouldn’t do if we could buy it just when we 
happened to think we wanted it. And when we have steak one 
day, we have macaroni and cheese the next. I’ve worked out 
menus for three weeks, and each week is different. Why, you 
can’t imagine how interesting it is to do that. Then I wrote 
up some of the ways I found to make a little go a long way, 
and sold them to a domestic magazine for three dollars. I 
put that money into the bank, and believe me, I’m going to 
experiment some more, and write about it. I’m just the hap¬ 
piest girl in the world.” 

“You actually do look contented,” said Doris Marie, as if 
she could hardly believe the testimony of her own eyes. 

“Contented! Is that all you see? Didn’t you hear me say I’m 
the happiest girl you know? But I shouldn’t be, Doris Marie, 
if I had married for any reason except love. I can do any¬ 
thing for Dicky and rejoice in it no matter how hard; but if 
I looked at life as you do, I should want everything that money 
can buy—just as you do. And even then I wouldn’t do it—be¬ 
cause money can’t buy the companionship Dicky and I give each 
other.” 

“If Bert Baldwin weren’t such a lady,” blurted out Doris 
Marie, “I believe I’d marry him,” 

“Bert is a nice boy,” replied Joe-Anne; “I should be sorry 
to see him married to you.” 

“I’d like to know why?” 

“Because you don’t love him—and never will. You don’t 
even respect him, or you couldn’t speak of him as a perfect 
lady.” 


REJUVENATED 


237 


Doris Marie grinned. “Perhaps,” she said, “I might reform 
him. That ought to be easier than marrying a drunkard to re¬ 
form him—and we’ve often heard of girls doing that. Bert is 
a nice boy—but he is lazy. His mother declares that if Bert 
marries me, she’ll will all her property to some hospital—and 
he believes that and it scares him half to death. Now I don’t 
believe it for one little minute. Bert is the only child she has. 
Of course she wouldn’t disinherit him, especially when she 
found out how happy I made him.” 

“You wouldn’t make him happy. You couldn’t, Doris Marie, 
because you don’t love him. And he doesn’t love you. If he 
did, he’d be willing to work for you. He’d go find something 
to do that would make him independent of his mother.” 

“I think he really does care a great deal about me. He is 
very jealous, and that is a sign of affection, isn’t it?” 

“Not when that is the only indication. The only sign worth 
considering would be proof that he was ready and willing and 
able to take care of you without any help from his mother. 
And you’d never wait for him to make good, even if he 
decided to try, because you don’t care enough for him to wait 
for him. I should be very sorry to hear that you and Bert 
were married because I like you both. Of course, if Bert’s 
mother were willing to continue supporting him, and didn’t 
object to supporting his wife, also, you might manage, be¬ 
cause Bert seems very pliable and wouldn’t be likely to quarrel 
with you.” 

“I think,” said Doris Marie, coldly, “that marriage hasn’t 
improved you as a friend. You seem able to advise the world 
—just as most girls do as soon as they annex a husband.” 

“Well, dear, you know you don’t have to take my advice. 
You never did, for that matter. And you always get huffy 
about it—but it is nice to remember that our quarrels never 
last very long—so I’m going to hope for a nice long visit 
with you very soon. Goodby, dear.” 


238 


REJUVENA TED 


Bert’s mother was determined that her son should not 
marry Doris Marie, and Bert became quite morbid over her 
decision. He declared that he had a right to a share of her 
property, that she had no right to will it to anyone else, or to 
dictate as to how he should spend a proportionate amount of it. 
She had brought him into the world without asking his con¬ 
sent, and it was up to her to look out for him and make him 
comfortable and happy. If she were unable to do that, he 
might understand that he should work for his living, but 
under existing conditions he should not be expected to work at 
all since it was unnecessary. To this her only reply was that 
the power to provide for him or not rested with her, and she 
would have nothing more to do with him if he married Doris 
Marie, because she did not believe that girl would make any 
man happy. She wanted a daughter-in-law -who would seem 
like a daughter, and Doris Marie always sneered at her or 
poked fun at her. Mother and son quarrelled quite bitterly 
over it, one evening after Doris Marie had accepted an invita¬ 
tion from another young man, and he informed his mother 
that he would not continue to live if Doris Marie married any¬ 
one but him. He wished to marry her at once to make sure of 
her; but the mother was not to be coaxed or threatened. She 
simply would not consent to her son’s marriage with Doris 
Marie; so the badly trained, undisciplined, misguided boy 
settled the question by taking his own life. He went out to the 
garage before the mother’s answer was really elaborated as 
she had meant it to be, made himself comfortable in his car, 
and left the world by the monoxide poisoning route. 

This caused more talk than the affair warranted because it 
offered opportunity for decided and strongly opposed opinions. 
No one thought Bert Baldwin’s death was a great loss to the 
community, but he formed a theme for more than one sermon, 
and many editorials, on how not to train a child. Some blamed 
the mother; others pitied her. Some smiled because Doris 
Marie was once more without a cavalier, and others were 


REJUVENATED 


239 


sorry for her. They did not think she deserved the unpleasant 
notoriety that came with the disappearance of one lover and the 
suicide of another. Willis Mayne, another of Doris Marie’s 
set, asked her to go to the Friday night dances, and she ac¬ 
cepted rather too soon after the death of Bert to please the 
older people. They thought it showed a heartlessness that was 
inexcusable. Mr. and Mrs. Mayne were leaders in this view 
of the distracted girl, and took immediate steps to protect their 
son by sending him on a business trip to South America, 
where they proposed to keep him until he had time to get over 
his infatuation, or until Doris Marie was safely married. Mrs. 
Mayne talked freely of their reason for sending their son 
away, and without any thought of the effect it might have on 
Doris Marie. It resulted in almost social eclipse for her for 
quite some time. She simply was not invited, except to parties 
made up entirely of girls. Her old friends among the boys 
were always glad to see her, treated her like one of themselves, 
would have been glad to show her some attention if any of the 
other fellows had invited her—but not one of them invited her 
to go anywhere with him. They talked of Sidney, who, they 
claimed, had been driven into companionate marriage with a 
girl he didn’t care for because Doris Marie refused to ask 
her father to set him up in business. They talked of Boyd 
Hunter who had evidently decided at almost the last minute 
that it would be easier to run away than to marry her. They 
talked of Dicky Graham, who had left her without any ex¬ 
planation and eloped with Joe-Anne. They talked of Bert 
Baldwin who had committed suicide because of her, and of 
Willis Mayne, who had been sent to South America. It was 
evident to them all that it was not safe to pay attention to 
Doris Marie—and yet they agreed that she was the most 
popular girl in the bunch—the one who contributed most of 
the spice to their entertainments—the one they’d prefer to take 
about if only they dared to. But it really was not safe—and 
so they refused to invite her, and they criticized her openly, 


240 


REJUVENA TED 


and did not recognize the fact that she was really better worth 
knowing than any of them. 

Doris Marie’s distracted parents were quite unhappy over 
the situation. They were not blind to the faults of their little 
girl, but they knew she did not deserve the treatment that she 
was receiving. The trouble was, they could not seem to find 
any way to help her. When a pack of young animals decides to 
ostracize one of their number, it is useless, as a rule, for the 
adults to interfere. 

No one knew exactly how Doris Marie felt about her un¬ 
enviable position. She kept her own counsel, and if she 
missed being invited to the parties, no one guessed it, because 
about that time she became a very busy young lady. She was 
brave—a good sport she called herself—and she had initiative. 
She subscribed for a correspondence course in short story 
writing, joined an evening class in journalism, and a day class 
in domestic economy, and also engaged a private tutor to give 
her lessons in psychology. She really did not have any time 
for social diversions, as her old friends could understand 
without being told. And she took up her studies with such 
energy and enthusiasm that she won the warmest praise from 
her teachers, as well as the respect of her fellow students. A 
different halo was shining over her now—but she had her halo 
—and it was becoming, and observed—and envied. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Boyd felt that he was drifting—marking time—waiting for 
something to turn up that would serve as a key to the solution 
of his problem concerning his immediate future. He despised 
himself for his vacillation, and yet felt himself powerless to 
reach a decision. There seemed to be a Fate with whose com¬ 
mands he could not cope. 

He had left his wife’s home, on the day following his in¬ 
troduction to his son, and had taken an inexpensive room in a 
pension near by. He had a premonition that his problem 
would not be speedily solved, and had decided that he must 
make what money he had brought with him last as long as 
possible. He did not care to send home for more until his 
future course had been determined. Until that time, he pre¬ 
ferred that none of his old associates should know where he 
was. He had kept in touch with the New York papers, and 
knew of the search that had been instituted, and how it had 
frittered out—a surprisingly inadequate bit of detective work, 
according to his idea. But he was glad the case had been 
dropped as practically hopeless, because he wished to stage 
his return to the New York office without the help of any 
officious outsider. 

He also' read, in the columns devoted to social news, of the 
various activities of the younger generation—items that would 
not have interested him at all a comparatively few months ago. 
He was glad to know that Doris Marie and Dicky Graham 
seemed to be taking a prominent part in everything that would 
naturally appear to them to be worth while, and that their 
names were linked together. Evidently, Doris Marie was not 
allowing his mysterious disappearance to affect her health and 
spirits to any appreciable extent. He was glad of that, and it 

241 


242 


REJUVENATED 


was well for his peace of mind that nothing appeared in the 
papers about her experiences with her other cavaliers. That 
would have worried him. He wanted her to have whatever she 
thought she needed to make her happy. But, while he missed 
her far more than he cared to acknowledge, even to himself, 
he realized that he no longer wished to marry her. He was 
beginning to wonder how he could have entertained that idea 
for a moment—a man of his age! Mightn’t that be looked 
upon as an evidence of approaching senility? He was quite 
sure that his wife so regarded it. 

Mary steadfastly refused to consider Boyd’s youthful 
appearance as an indication of recovered youth, and she made 
him feel that, in reality, she was very much younger than he 
was. He had to admit that in spirit she did seem younger. For 
instance, she understood their son as he had not learned to 
understand any of the younger generation, and was a real com¬ 
panion to him, whereas he himself could not get nearer than 
an interested and attentive observer. But notwithstanding their 
long separation, and the very difference in their appearance, he 
did somehow seem to understand his wife. He grudgingly 
acknowledged, to himself, that he felt more comfortable with 
her than he had with anyone since she had left his home. But 
that did not mean that he wished to live with her again. He 
realized that to do so would make him ridiculous. He could 
not think that it would make her ridiculous, because she was 
simply being natural, and had no excuse to make for anything. 
Besides, she was so serenely indifferent to what others might 
say of her personal appearance, that she wouldn’t be hurt by 
invidious comparisons, as he would have been in her place. No, 
his self respect demanded that he live apart from her—but he 
did not mean to entirely lose touch with her again. He decided 
that he’d prefer to be where he could not see her—but that he 
very much wanted to hear from her—and frequently. He 
would leave France forever as soon as he had decided what to 
do with himself. 


REJUVENATED 


243 


Hicks Jarou had returned to his sanitarium and his work as 
soon as he felt sure that Boyd had regained consciousness, and 
would be no worse for his enforced trip across the Atlantic. 
But before he left, he had insisted upon having a talk with 
Boyd, and also insisted that Boyd should listen without animus 
—as any sane man would listen to a business proposition. 

“I am going to make you a proposition, Mr. Hunter,” he 
said, “that is quite likely not to appeal to you, now; but which 
might interest you later on—when you have had time to adjust 
yourself to the new conditions that have been forced upon 
you.” 

“Very well,” said Boyd briefly; “I’ll hear what you say, but 
I don’t expect to be interested.” 

“You don’t want to be interested,” said Jarou with a smile— 
“but you are really too good a business man to dismiss what 
I’m going to tell you without thinking it over. I am moved to 
confide in you for two reasons; first, I need a good business 
man to help me.” 

“Might as well stop right there,” interrupted Boyd. “You 
could not name any consideration that would induce me to join 
you. I do not like you. Nothing would induce me to see you 
again—if I could avoid it. I don’t say I never shall, because 
you have proven that I can’t help myself—but of my own 
accord, I shall never have anything more to do with you.” 

“I understand exactly how you think you feel,” replied Jarou 
pleasantly—“and I also know that you have no idea how you 
are going to feel before you have decided upon your future 
plans. You will probably not believe me when I tell you that 
you will never go back to New York to live—yet I am con¬ 
vinced that you will not.” 

“I may not,” admitted Boyd, “and on the other hand I may 
decide to take the bull by the horns and face the difficulties. 
However, any decision I may make will not include you.” 

“If you do not return to your old office, you will need a new 
occupation—and if you are to retain your sanity it must be 


244 


REJUVENA TED 


something absorbing. What do you suppose I have taken up—” 

“I neither know nor care,” interrupted Boyd, rudely. He 
felt the magnetism—the charm of the man so keenly that it 
seemed to him that the only way to relieve himself of Jarou’s 
presence was to emphasize his animosity so offensively that it 
could not be misunderstood. If he did not get rid of him—and 
speedily—he might be converted into a receptive attitude—as 
he had been before. 

“There will soon be placed on the market,” continued Jarou, 
as calmly as if Boyd had not spoken, “a very wonderful gem 
that will be called the Jarou stone. It is more beautiful than 
either the ruby or the diamond, and will command a greater 
price.” 

“Synthetic?” asked Boyd, interested in spite of himself. 

“Yes, but composed of substances so difficult to obtain, and 
so difficult to compound that it can never be made cheaply, nor 
can it ever be made in quantity. It will interest the wealthy 
because of its almost prohibitive price, and the fact that it must 
always be rare. Every gem now on the market will drop in 
price when the Jarou stone becomes known.” 

“And until it is followed by excellent imitations,” suggested 
Boyd. 

“That can never happen,” replied Jarou, eagerly, “and for 
this reason: This gem is so compounded that it has a wonder¬ 
ful effect on the nervous system. Therein lies its real value. 
That effect can not be imitated. I, alone, know the secret. But 
no one can wear the gem without being made aware of its bene¬ 
ficial effect, or wear an imitation without detecting the fraud. 
In spite of its price there will be a demand for the Jarou stone 
that can never be quite filled. Do you realize what that means ? 
Think of the shattered nerves of America’s smart set!” 

“Why America, so particularly?” 

“In no other country is extreme nervousness so noticeable. 
Besides, in no other country can one find so many people with 
money enough to afford such a gem. As a business venture, the 


REJUVENATED 


245 


sale of these gems presents a dazzling opportunity to the right 
man.” 

“You are speaking to the wrong man, now,” Boyd reminded 
him. 

“You might be the right man,” replied Jarou; “you have all 
the qualifications. And should you decide that you could not 
remain in France with your wife, and could not return to your 
old office, and yet that you must have some interesting occupa¬ 
tion, and would not object to something that would make you 
a far richer man than you have ever been—well, my friend, I 
believe you will yet consider the Jarou stone.” 

“Perhaps,” replied Boyd doubtfully. “You make it sound 
interesting, but I feel that as soon as I have had the pleasure 
of shutting my door behind you, I shall begin to get glimpses of 
the hidden joker. I may think of the Jarou stone again—but 
never at all seriously.” 

“All right; we’ll let it go at that. When I leave you I am 
going back to my sanitarium where a most interesting work is 
being carried on. For years I have sought the missing link—” 

Boyd had arisen and had his hand on his door knob. “I 
have an engagement,” he began, trying to speak apologetically, 
“and I fear I must ask to be excused.” 

“You have no pressing engagement,” laughed Jarou, who 
had also arisen, and was now drawing on his gloves. “The 
trouble with you is that I’ve been giving you pretty strong 
medicine, and it makes you dizzy. Well, we won’t say goodby, 
because I am convinced that we shall meet again.” 

With that, Jarou had left the room and Boyd had not seen 
him again. He had run in, his wife told him, to say goodby to 
her, and to remind her that he was always at her service. He 
had said that he had no idea when he should see her again. 

“I could be interested in that man,” admitted Boyd, “if he 
had not done what he did to me. He is a man whom I would 
enjoy talking to—he is stimulating—but—” he threw out his 
hands in a gesture of dismissal. 


246 


REJUVENATED 


“But if he hadn’t done what he did for you,” his wife 
reminded him, “ you would not be here now to talk to anyone.” 

“No,” replied Boyd, “undoubtedly I should not. At that time 
it mattered tremendously. Today, I wonder why I was so 
anxious to live. I’ve been recalling that hour in Central Park 
before Jarou came to me. I’ll never forget how I suffered 
because I’d been told I had cancer of the liver. It was awful. 
I was willing to try anything—anything—just to live. Well, I 
took the chance he offered—and I lived—and now I’m asking 
myself to what purpose, and telling myself that I might better 
have died.” 

“I don’t agree with you,” replied his wife, briskly; “I don’t 
agree with you at all. You weren’t ready to die; you aren’t 
ready now, for that matter. If you’ve come to feel that you 
might have done better than you did do— why, that in itself is 
sufficient reason for going on. Don’t waste time thinking about 
it—just buckle down and do better.” 

“Is your wisdom born of experience?” asked Boyd a little 
acidly. 

“Yes, it is—heart breaking experience. You see, there came 
a time when I was no longer thinking primarily of myself— 
what I wanted or didn’t want—what I was missing that rightly 
belonged to me—what I might have had, or might still have— 
all that sort of gloomy stuff, you know. That was while I was 
in the hospital with my little man-child—our son. And from 
my first conscious moment as a mother I ceased to come first 
in my desires. Then I thought ‘I have a son, and I have robbed 
him of his home and of his father—’ ” 

“But you surely must have known you could come back!” 

“I think I did know, Boyd, in a way; but I didn’t know I 
knew. I told myself that I’d cut my bridges behind me—that 
somehow I’d make it all up to my son—and that anyhow you’d 
never forgive me—” 

“How could you have thought that? You must have known 
I loved you.” 


REJUVENATED 


24 7 


“I was sure you loved me in your own way—but that didn’t 
satisfy me. I wanted to be loved in my way, and I was quite 
sure you would never understand that. And I was right about 
it. You would not have understood. If I had gone back to you, 
in order to give our boy a home and a father, I should have 
fretted all the rest of my life because your domination would 
have been more intolerable, and my dependence more complete. 
I am glad I did not go back, and yet I’ve suffered constantly 
because I felt that I had robbed our son. I have done my best 
by him—I have really done very well—but I have not been able 
to give him the advantages that he could have had if we had 
gone back to you. And every day—every day—I have told 
myself, ‘I will go back—someday. Boydie is young; he can 
afford to let me live my life a few years longer—for most of his 
life is ahead of him.’ And so the days have passed—and I’ve 
marked time—and waited for something to happen that would 
compel me to decide—you know how that is, Boyd; you know 
because you’re doing that yourself, right now.” 

“Yes, I suppose I am,” sighed her husband, miserably—“just 
marking time. Did you tell me Jarou had left his address with 
you ?” 

“Yes; do you want it?” 

“No—no, not now at any rate; but later on I might want to 
look him up.” 

YHe is still at that place where he took you—had you for¬ 
gotten ?” 

“I wasn’t sure. I destroyed the address he gave me, and I 
tried to forget it—and I really was not sure, anyhow, that he 
was still there.” 

Mrs. Hunter laughed merrily: “Boyd,” she said, “how you 
do like to camouflage ! You know perfectly well that your only 
reason for asking for that address was because you hoped I’d 
be surprised into giving you a little advice about Jarou’s offer. 
Well, I shall do nothing of the sort. You’ve got to decide that 
for yourself.” 


248 


REJUVENA TED 


Time slipped by—a week—a month—three months—it would 
soon be a year since Boyd had been abducted—and he still lived 
in the inexpensive little pension , making his steadily dwindling 
bank notes go as far as he could, visiting his wife nearly every 
day, sometimes helping her in her business with really valu¬ 
able suggestions, and steadily becoming better acquainted with 
his son. 

The boy was really his anchor. He was fascinated by him. 
He couldn’t really believe in him, for a long time, as being his 
own son, and when he reviewed any particular day they had 
chanced to spend together, he could see how inadequate had 
been his perception of the tie between father and son, when he 
had tried to act the part of son back in New York. How had 
he gotten by with so lifeless a performance ? He couldn’t have 
done it if everyone he knew had not been so wrapped up in 
himself that he had preferred to accept any statement, to the 
job of thinking out the reasons for little acts that seemed 
anomalous. Even though he could be assured that he would 
not be molested, he knew that he could never again try to pass 
himself off as his own son. If he returned to New York it must 
be as Boyd Hunter, Sr., rejuvenated. 

How would it be if he merely wrote to Stafford, asking that 
money be sent him, asking about the business, and the house, 
and merely saying that he was not yet ready to return to New 
York, and did not care to explain his absence until he could 
do so in person? Would Stafford believe that he was himself 
and forward the money—or would he fear that the request 
came from an imposter and insist upon proof of his identity? 
And of course to write would be to bring some one from 
among his old acquaintances to see him. “Going to France?” 
he could hear them say, “why not look up Boyd Hunter while 
you’re over there? We’d all like to know how he is getting on, 
and when he means to come home, and why he left so mysteri¬ 
ously.” Boyd drew a long breath, and shook his head. He was 
not ready to see old friends, yet. 


REJUVENATED 


249 


Suppose he went to work for Hicks Jarou, making a market 
for the Jarou stone? He felt pretty confident that he could 
make a go of that. He could go to America, but not to New 
York; he could go to South America, and visit all the leading 
cities of Europe. He could earn his living easily and see a lot 
of the world, and let his business run itself with the help of 
Stafford. But somehow that idea did not please him. He 
wanted his son to inherit his business and his home and all else 
that belonged to him. And that is what the boy’s mother had 
desired when she decided to prevent his second marriage—that 
and a stainless name that the boy would not be ashamed of. 
How was it to be brought about? He must reach a decision 
soon. His money was almost gone. He had idled long enough. 
What should he do ? He tossed, sleeplessly, all night, and arose 
the next morning as far as ever from reaching a solution to 
his problem. 

Boyd junior rushed into his father’s room in the pension, as 
Boyd senior finished his coffee, which he always took in his 
own room. 

“Morning, Dad,” he said gaily—then, his voice suddenly 
taking on a note of anxiety, “what’s the matter? You look as 
if you hadn’t slept any too well.” 

“Didn’t sleep at all,” grumbled the father. 

“You need exercise, Dad; that’s all that ails you. Get your 
hat and come on down to the shop with me. I’ve made mother 
take a day off.” 

“Why, isn’t she feeling well? Is she overworking?” 

“She says not. I don’t know; but she certainly doesn’t look 
well—hasn’t, to my notion for more than a month.” 

“I hadn’t noticed it, Son.” 

“You wouldn’t be likely to. You don’t know her as well as 
I do.” 

“No; no, of course not. Perhaps you’d better call in a doc¬ 
tor. Who is her physician ?” 

“She hasn’t one—refuses to see one—says she knows what 


250 


REJUVENATED 


ails her—that it is nothing serious, and she’ll come out all 
right.” 

The two men had left the house and were swinging down the 
street, shoulder to shoulder. People turned to look at them, 
they were so strikingly alike—and so handsome. One seldom 
saw twins who resembled each other more closely. They 
exchanged glances of grave comprehension, as they chanced to 
overhear one of the many comments that were usually made 
about them. 

“The only difference, Dad,” said Boyd junior, “is that I am 
beginning to turn gray at the temples, and you’re not.” 

“Gray! At the temples! You! Nonsense.” 

“You haven’t noticed it because red hair like ours doesn’t 
turn gray exactly as darker hair does—it just gets lighter and 
lighter and finally becomes white.” 

“But you, Son—why you are not old enough—” 

“Dad, I’m thirty. You and mother can’t seem to realize that. 
I’ve never tried to make mother realize, because I’ve been all 
she had—and she has liked to think of me as still young and 
dependent—dependent upon her, you know—and I’ve just let 
her have her way. But, Dad, I do want you to understand—” 

“Yes, Son—go on; just what must I try to understand?” 

“I want my freedom. I want you to help me get it. I have 
felt, ever since you came—that you could manage somehow to 
set me free without hurting mother too much.” 

“She ought to understand. She says she left me because her 
soul demanded freedom.” 

“Yes, she told me so—and that she was sure you would not 
understand. Now my soul demands freedom, and I am afraid 
she won’t understand. Life is a curious hotch-potch, isn’t it?” 

“Seems so, when one tries to analyze it. Son, can you give 
me any idea of the use you’d make of your freedom?” 

“I know exactly what I want to do. I want to be in some 
business for myself. All my life I’ve just helped mother. The 
business is hers. It’s all right, too, in a way—I feel a renegade 


REJUVENATED 


251 


when I criticise it or complain—she makes a good living— 
we’ve always had all we needed—but it doesn’t satisfy me.” 

“I think I understand. Go on.” 

“Then I want to marry—I want a home of my own—why, 
Dad, I’m thirty years old. I ought to have a son by this time!” 

“Have you found the girl ?” 

“No; I haven’t allowed myself to look for one. I haven’t 
dared to. You see, it would nearly kill mother—you can see for 
yourself how she clings to me—” 

“Yes—but I hadn’t considered the relationship from your 
point of view. I see, now, that you are actaully fettered.” 

“That’s it! Fettered by chains too precious—too tender—to 
be rudely shattered—yet as tenacious as—why you can’t know 
how I sometimes long to strike out—fight my way to freedom 
—ride rough-shod over everything and everybody—Dad, I just 
don’t know what to do.” 

“Perhaps you magnify the trouble—” 

“Say! you just mention my getting married—quite casually, 
you know, and watch mother’s reaction. Then you’ll realize 
what I’m up against.” 

“I already have a pretty good idea. I don’t know what I can 
do, Son—not sure that I can do anything—but I’ll think it 
over.” 

“Dad, you can’t fool me! You’ve got your hunch.” 

“Well, yes, I have. Guess I can find a way out.” 

“Bully for you! I’ve felt all along that you could help me, 
if only you once understood.” 

The two men entered the little shop—an attractive little 
shop that spoke of a woman’s ownership. Boyd senior, looked 
about with more interest than he had yet shown in it. He had 
never thought of it as a real business, and yet it had supported 
two people in comparative comfort. So the boy was not satis¬ 
fied, he mused—wanted something of greater importance— 
something all his own. Well, some day, when he had passed 
on— 


252 


REJUVENATED 


“It is a prosperous business/’ Boyd junior was saying—“and 
it looks prosperous.” 

“Yes,” replied the father, “although rather mixed—not defi¬ 
nitely one thing or another.” 

The son became busy, and the father continued his silent 
investigation. A curio shop, primarily, with souvenirs pertain¬ 
ing to France given decided prominence. He thought of the 
curio shops he had visited in the United States where all the 
souvenirs to be found in any part of the country were repre¬ 
sented. No particular reason why the tourist should shop at 
any of them, when he would get the same thing in his own 
town. New Orleans, the Florida resorts, California or Alaska 
offered exactly what could be purchased in New York, Minne¬ 
apolis or Montreal—and very little else. But in this little shop 
of his wife’s there were souvenirs that she had made herself, or 
had designed—little things that spoke of France—desirable 
trifles that the tourist would not be likely to find anywhere 
else. A part of the business consisted of artistic book-binding 
—an occupation that Mary Hunter had taken up as a fad and 
then had made useful in her work. There were excellent trans¬ 
lations, in English, of the best French books, and these were 
artistically bound in French colors, showing French designs, 
French armorial bearings, French scenery, French peasantry— 
all characteristic and desirable and not to be found anywhere 
else. There was a room adjoining the curio shop—Boyd junior 
called it his mother’s holy of holies—where genuine antiques 
might be found—small things for most part, and not very ex¬ 
pensive—many of them purchased from the peasantry—but all 
interesting and desirable from the standpoint of the traveler 
who knew something about such things. 

“Mother just picks them up—she has an eye for such stuff,” 
her son explained, “but she has to go slowly because she hasn’t 
sufficient capital to branch out as she’d like. Only an occasional 
customer is allowed in here. She isn’t really anxious to sell. 
She isn’t ready. She’s collecting, and some day, when her col- 


REJUVENA TED 


253 


lection warrants it, she plans to open an antique shop and make 
a killing. ,, 

“She could do it, too,” replied Boyd senior; “she has a fine 
start, and there’s money in turning over merchandise like this.” 

“I call it junk,” replied the son. “It doesn’t interest me very 
much. It doesn’t seem to me like real business—manufactur¬ 
ing, you know, or something like that.” 

“This would not suit me, either,” replied the father ; “but 
just the same I find it most illuminating. It has made me 
realize what a good business woman your mother really is. It 
has made me understand why she had to run away from me— 
and from the life that I gave her and that I thought ought to 
satisfy any woman.” 

“Ye-es,” responded Boyd junior, “she’s wonderful all right. 
This was only a little post card shop when it was left to her.” 

His father noted the hopelessness in his son’s voice—saw it 
in his eyes, and in the sudden dejected sagging of the broad 
shoulders, and he understood. 

“As I’ve told you,” his son continued, trying to be fair and 
just, “she has made a good living for us both—she sent me to 
college—and then to a good business college that I might have 
a first class business training. She is confident that I can carry 
on the work where she leaves it and make money enough to 
satisfy any reasonable man. And it never occurs to her that I 
might not care to do so. She has worked hard—very hard— 
for me—and I’m a beast to complain—” 

“Son, don’t you worry any more about it. I’m going to use 
the tools your mother forged for herself, to set you free.” 
Boyd senior chuckled like a mischievous boy as his mind played 
with the idea. “We won’t let her know that we’ve had this 
talk,” he said. “You keep out of it. I think I know exactly 
how to deal with this situation.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


Doris Marie was bored. Even her studies no longer inter¬ 
ested her. This was principally because she had gone so far 
ahead of her fellow students that there was no longer a ques¬ 
tion of rivalry between them, and that deprived her of one of 
her strongest incentives to study. And she was being taken too 
much for granted by her instructors, who saw no reason why 
they should keep repeating the flattering remarks that she 
earned, but which had become worn from repetition. Doris 
Marie still had her halo, but it had become commonplace. It 
attracted little attention, and it was no longer a novelty even 
to herself. And so she longed for new fields to conquer. A 
devoted attendant would have made life more endurable, for 
she longed to dance, and would have enjoyed a petting party; 
but young men still held themselves aloof. They were still 
afraid of Doris Marie. 

When Doris Marie spoke of her condition to her parents, 
she did so with wonderful tact. She led them to declare that 
she must be ill, and then she admitted, as if it didn’t really 
matter, that possibly they might be right about it. Without 
appearing to have done so, she had deftly planted in their 
minds the fear that their darling child was in danger of a 
nervous breakdown. Her manner conveyed the idea that so 
far as she was concerned it didn’t matter much to her what 
she had—life wasn’t worth living anyhow—but she appeared 
as one who realized her danger, but who was too brave to 
admit the worst—a rather patient and pathetic little sufferer. 
They believed that she had studied too hard, and declared that 
what she had learned could not compensate her for her evident 
loss in physical well-being. 

Doris Marie, as was her usual custom, kept her real thoughts 
to herself. Joe-Anne was the only one of all her friends to 

254 


REJUVENA TED 


255 


whom she frankly confided the fact that she was bored—not 
ill at all, as her parents were telling their friends—just bored. 
She told Joe-Anne that it seemed to her as if she had tried 
everything in the world that gave any promise of being worth 
while, and had found it all stale, disappointing and unprofit¬ 
able. And Joe-Anne replied that, after reviewing the past year 
of her friend’s life, she was not surprised to hear her con¬ 
clusions. She declared that no girl could be really happy who 
was not married and desperately in love with her husband. 
This was said seriously. Joe-Anne believed it, and she was 
doing her best to make Doris Marie believe it, also. She thought 
Doris Marie might fall in love—if only she realized how neces¬ 
sary love was to happiness—and that her life would then be 
worth living. Joe-Anne believed that Fate had been unneces¬ 
sarily hard on Doris Marie; but when she said so to Dicky he 
changed the subject. What he really thought about it was that 
Doris Marie was suffering from an attack of conscience, be¬ 
cause it stood to reason that she must sooner or later recognize 
the fact that she had never played fair with any member of his 
sex. But there was no complaining conscience at the root of 
Doris Marie’s attack of boredom. While she had frequently 
reviewed her various love episodes she failed to find herself to 
blame for anything that had happened. The trouble, in her 
opinion, lay in the fact that boys were so effeminate they 
couldn’t possibly be treated as men. They didn’t inspire respect. 
They lacked self-respect. They only took up room that might 
better be left vacant. They were useful as dancing partners, 
but that was all. It didn’t matter what one did to them, they 
deserved it all and more too. She believed that her influence 
should have had a beneficial effect on those whom she had 
deigned to play about with and that it would have done so had 
it not been for the present generation of ineffectual parents, 
who brought up their sons to cling to the parental roof as long 
as they could without being expected to exert themselves in 
any way. 


256 


REJUVENATED 


Doris Marie realized that she was ready for a change of 
environment, and she believed she could manage to get it if 
she could come a little closer to the appearance of nervous 
breakdown. She had read up on the symptoms, and found that 
no two cases were alike, and all called for a temperamental 
make-up—which was not hard to assume, especially to one 
who already was gifted in that direction. She wept without 
reason—something quite foreign to her nature—she moped 
about almost constantly, she mangaged to lose her appetite and 
in consequence looked thinner, and she told of many nights 
when she could not sleep at all. She got up in the morning 
feeling a little headachy—so she said, pathetically—“nothing 
to worry about, mother dear—perhaps it will soon disappear.” 
She was so sweet and meek these days when she spoke to her 
parents—so very patient—and they, poor things, began really 
to believe that their peppery little daughter was soon to become 
an angel. They consulted the family physician who had as¬ 
sisted in bringing her into the world, and who had always done 
his full share in the joyful task of spoiling her, and their 
anxiety prevented them from observing that he was not as 
surprised and anxious as he had been on other occasions when 
they had consulted him about her. They did not know that 
their daughter had already seen him and prepared him for 
their visit—a fact which would have astonished them beyond 
measure, because they had been most careful not to let their, 
little invalid suspect that they were worried enough to talk 
with the doctor about her case. 

The doctor knew exactly what to say. Doris Marie had told 
him, and she had succeeded in convincing him that her plan 
for herself was far better than any that either he or her parents 
could have devised. Doris Marie wanted to go abroad—and 
she did not want her parents to go with her. There was to be 
a party of twelve girls chaperoned by a school teacher whom 
they all knew, and she had decided to be one of that party. 
She liked Miss Morris, the teacher, and Miss Morris liked her. 


REJUVENA TED 


25 7 


She could do pretty much as she pleased when chaperoned by 
Miss Morris. 

Doris Marie’s wish was granted. It had been decided with¬ 
out any apparent intervention on her part that her health de¬ 
manded an ocean voyage, and that her nerves demanded youth¬ 
ful society, and that a complete change of environment was all 
that was needed to bring her back to what she had been before 
the several disastrous episodes,—headed by her broken engage¬ 
ment with Sidney, and including the mysterious disappearance 
of Boyd Hunter—had made of the past year a season of trials 
that were enough to wreck the spirits of anyone. It had been 
easy to get this wish granted. She was going abroad with a 
party of girls and a chaperone who had had experience in 
taking small parties of girls to desirable places. Doris Marie 
was secretly overjoyed because she felt quite sure that Miss 
Morris could be depended upon to be satisfactorily complais¬ 
ant where she was concerned. She would do the rest. 

What did she want to do that even the strictest chaperone 
might not approve ? She hadn’t the least idea. All she was sure 
of was that she was not at all likely to want to do anything 
that appealed to the majority. She was like that. She didn’t 
know what she had hoped for from this trip—except that it 
offered an opportunity to get away from much that she was 
finding disagreeable—but she was longing—longing intensely— 
for some experience that would be absolutely new to her, and 
perhaps different from any that any other girl had known. 
Simply crossing the ocean would not give her that, unless they 
were shipwrecked and she were quite startlingly saved; for this 
was not her first trip abroad. Her graduation gift had been a 
trip to most of the capital cities of Europe. 

Doris Marie was depressed when she left the steamer. She 
felt, when the little party reached Paris, and had been assigned 
to their respective rooms in one of the few really American 
hotels that city had to offer, that she had done all this before— 
and she realized that she was just as bored as she had been 


258 


REJUVENA TED 


when she left home—that she’d be obliged to go with the party 
on the same old dismal round of sight seeing, and that the 
trip she had worked so cleverly to secure did not hold one 
single thrill for her. She simply could not stand it. She would 
not stand it—so there! She’d got to find something interesting 
to think about, or she’d go crazy. And she’d got to find it for 
herself. Not one person in her party could be depended upon 
to find any joy in the unusual. Might as well recognize that 
fact right now—proclaim her independence—see the sights in 
her own way. 

“This is a good time to visit that quaint little art gallery I 
was telling you about—you remember? That darling little 
out-of-the-way place?” Miss Morris was speaking with cus¬ 
tomary enthusiasm, and the members of her party were assent¬ 
ing with their accustomed air of eagerness—all except Doris 
Marie. 

“My head aches,” she announced, lengthening her features 
as she had learned how to do so as to deceive even her doctor— 
drawing down the corners of her mouth, withdrawing all the 
sparkle from her eyes—wearing the air of a patient little suf¬ 
ferer. It worked. “My head aches awfully. If you don’t mind 
I’ll stay in my room and sleep the pain off. No, no,” intercept¬ 
ing alarming offers of companionship, “there’s nothing to 
worry about. I’m subject to these attacks. I get over them 
much more quickly if I can be left quite alone. I’d feel so 
unhappy if I deprived one of you from enjoying everything 
this wonderful trip has in store for you.” 

“But what about luncheon?” asked the businesslike Miss 
Morris; “we don’t want to leave you to eat alone—yet we can 
have the pictures almost to ourselves if we go during the lunch¬ 
eon hour.” 

“What had you planned to do about luncheon ?” asked Doris 
Marie. 


REJUVENATED 


259 


“We’d be too late to get it here. I had thought we might 
pick up a little snack at the funniest little cafe near the art 
gallery—but you won’t be with us.” 

“I shall not want any luncheon,” declared Doris Marie. “The 
very thought of food makes me feel worse. You go as you had 
planned, do everything just as you had planned it. Please. 
That will make me happy. If I get hungry I have plenty of 
fruit—as you can see—” indicating a basket on the table near 
her bed, “and perhaps I’ll lose a few ounces in weight if I don’t 
eat anything else until dinner time.” 


And so Doris Marie was left alone, and her health improved 
quite surprisingly—to one who didn’t know her very well. Ten 
minutes after she had assured herself that her friends had left 
the hotel, she got up and dressed. An hour later she was on 
the street. She would have a nice long walk, all by herself, and 
if she saw any indications of an interesting episode, she would 
be free to pursue it with no unwilling companion to attempt 
to dissuade her—thereby spoiling everything. 

A lady whom she had met on the steamer had given her the 
address of a quaint little curio shop known as “Mary’s Shoppe” 
which was absolutely “different” and which she must not miss. 
Doris Marie decided that she’d visit that shop this morning, 
and if she found it really different she could tell Miss Morris 
about it, and have some of the thrills of a discoverer. No 
reason why Miss Morris should have a corner on that brand 
of thrills! 

She found the shop without difficulty, but just before she 
crossed the street to enter the quaint door under the quaintly 
lettered sign “Mary’s Shoppe” she was rendered absolutely 
motionless by an apparition. Boydicum—her Boydicum stood 
in that doorway! And as he turned away, to walk up the 
street, another Boydicum came through that same doorway, 
and turned to walk beside him! They walked along together, 


260 


REJUVENATED 


shoulder to shoulder, and there was no way for her to tell 
which was her Boydicum and which the apparition—or did 
her eyes deceive her, and was she seeing double? She must 
find out. Her health and happiness depended upon her finding 
out all there was to know about this most curious experience. 
If both the men should dissolve into thin air—disappear utterly 
as was to be expected of apparitions—she would return to the 
curio shop and try to learn why they had appeared to come out 
of that door. Then she would report to the Psychical Society, 
and one of the interesting episodes she had so ardently desired 
would be written up, and the longed-for thrill of the discoverer 
would be hers beyond any doubt. Life had once more become 
worth living. Her intuitions had not led her astray. She knew, 
now, why she had been so determined to make this trip. Al¬ 
ready she was well repaid for the tiresome days of feigned 
illness. 

While these thoughts were flitting through her busy brain, 
Doris Marie was following the two men at a discreet distance, 
and studying them as carefully as that distance allowed. They 
led her a long way—almost two miles—and she was feeling 
rather tired when at last they turned into a little well-kept 
yard on the outskirts of the city, and entered a pretty vine- 
covered cottage and closed the door behind them. 

What was she to do now? She walked past the cottage, 
turned and walked back—did this several times—and then 
reached her decision. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She’d 
got to know why Boydicum was here—why there were two of 
him—why he had not written—as he should have done when 
to all intents and purposes she was still engaged to be married 
to him. That engagement had never been broken. She assured 
herself, quite feverishly, that she had never seriously consid¬ 
ered anyone else. The other playmates of the past year had 
simply been episodes—something to help her pass the time 
while Boydicum was absent. 


REJUVEN A TED 


261 


She had reached this decision—the next time she passed that 
door, she would knock for admittance. She had arrived. She 
entered the little yard, mounted the three steps to the inviting 
porch, and knocked. A cheerful voice—a woman’s voice— 
called to her to enter. She pushed the door open, and stood on 
the threshold. There stood Boydicum, close to an elderly 
woman who was sewing a button on his vest, which he had not 
taken the trouble to remove. The woman looked up and smiled. 
Boydicum looked too dazed for words—was, in fact in an even 
more serious condition than that expression implies, for in all 
his dread forebodings of a lonely and altogether hellish future, 
he had never once dreamed of anything like this. 

“Hello, Boydicum!” exclaimed Doris Marie. She made it 
sound almost casual, because she was herself quite dazed by 
the encounter, and couldn’t think of anything more dramatic 
to say—anyhow, nothing as dramatic as the case demanded. 

“Well, Doris Marie!” Boyd had gotten a tiny hold on life 
once more, and was appearing almost normal. He took a step 
forward, and held out a trembling hand. She took the hand in 
one of hers, put her other hand on his shoulder, drew him 
toward her, reached up and kissed him. 

“Boydicum,” she said, reproachfully, “why did you do it?” 

“Doris Marie,” he stammered, “let me present my wife. 
Maiy, this is Miss Doris Marie Palmer—” 

“Your wife!” exclaimed Doris Marie, rudely, “your mother, 
perhaps. What’s the matter with you, Boydicum ? Been having 
an attack of paresis?” 

Boyd, senior, was saved from replying by the entrance of 
Boyd, junior, who had gone to his room immediately upon 
entering the cottage, and whom, for the moment, Doris Marie 
had quite forgotten: His appearance produced an effect on 
her quite similar to that she had thought she had detected in 
Boydicum when she entered. She was certainly suffering from 
a form of paralysis that was affecting muscular motion, but 
not sensation. She stood rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and 


262 


REJUVENATED 


full of fear, her mouth half open, her heart hammering. What 
ailed her? What did she think she was seeing? Of course 
there couldn’t be two of anyone! No one had ever heard that 
Boyd was a twin—but perhaps he was—the idea unlocked her 
stiffened tongue. 

“Boydicum,” she stammered, “why didn’t you say there were 
two of you—I mean, twins ?” 

“Doris Marie,” faltered Boyd, senior, “allow me to introduce 
my son. Boydie, this is Miss Palmer, of New York, daughter 
of the lawyer who takes charge of my affairs.” 

“Glad to know you, Miss Palmer,” said Boyd, junior heartily. 
“Have a seat, won’t you? Evidently dad and mother forgot 
to mention it.” 

Doris Marie was glad to be seated. She was trembling so 
that she could hardly stand. She had longed for an experience 
out of the ordinary, and it had been accorded her—but who 
could have dreamed of anything like this! She had longed for 
a thrill, she thought, but not for a knock-out. She dropped into 
the easy chair Boyd, junior, found for her with the lack of 
grace—the absurd laxity—of a rag doll. She felt like a rag 
doll. She didn’t feel at all sure that she was not dreaming. 
Even pinching didn’t quite assure her on that point. She had 
once dreamed of pinching herself, and it had hurt just about 
as badly. Finally, her nerves really gave way, and she burst 
into tears—wept so violently that her little audience became 
alarmed. 

“Better leave her with me,” suggested Mrs. Hunter, and 
the two men left the room. 

Boyd, junior, was vibrant with curiosity. He had never been 
told of his father’s episode with Doris Marie. He was anxious 
to know more about the girl. She wasn’t exactly what one 
would call beautiful—but she looked interesting. What did 
his father think ailed her? Why was she crying like that? 
Why did she call his father by that absurd name? Had her 
father gotten into trouble—perhaps absconded with a portion 


REJUVENATED 


263 


of his father’s funds—was that what she had come to say? 

Boyd, senior, realized that an unhappy—a disagreeable con¬ 
ference was in store for him. He had a confession to make 
that could no longer be postponed. The unexpected appearance 
of Doris Marie had served another purpose also. It convinced 
him that he could no longer procrastinate. He must now decide 
what he would do about returning to New York and his busi¬ 
ness. Did he care to face the music when Doris Marie had 
made public the story that his wife was doubtless telling her at 
this very moment? 

The two men had drifted into Boyd, junior’s room, and the 
younger man was sitting facing his father. His eyes were 
bright, eager, inquiring. There was no putting him off. The 
father saw no chance to “cut and run.” He began his story. 

Boyd, junior, listened quietly—endeavored to conceal his 
amazement. He had been told how his father chanced to appear 
so absurdly young, and had been sorry for him. “What a fool 
it must make him feel,” he had thought, and he was in full 
sympathy with his father’s hatred of Hicks Jarou. But to be 
told that the old man had actually passed himself off as his own 
son—had tried to go about with the young people—had become 
engaged to be married to a mere child—why the poor old duf¬ 
fer must be crazy! But of course he couldn’t tell him that. 
Wfiat in time could he say! His father was evidently feeling 
horribly ashamed—he ought to try to comfort him. But how? 
A situation so impossible, so undignified, so absurd— 


CHAPTER XXI. 


A peal of unrestrained laughter rang through the little cot¬ 
tage. It brought the trying conference between father and son 
to an abrupt close. They sat up stiffly, as if bracing them¬ 
selves for something even more disagreeable than their confer¬ 
ence had been, and exchanged troubled glances that proclaimed 
the satisfactory degree of understanding they had reached. 
The father’s confession had made a real pal for him—his son 
understood and sympathized, and because of that he no longer 
belonged entirely to his mother. 

The laughter seemed never ending—peal upon peal, rising 
almost to a scream—sounding almost maniacal. Doris Marie 
had swung from hysterical weeping into hysterical laughter, 
and she was doing the job thoroughly. 

‘‘Wonder if mother needs any help with that wildcat,” mur¬ 
mured Boyd, junior, half rising from his seat as if to go to her. 
His father waved an authoritative hand—indicated that it 
would be wiser for him not to interfere. 

“Your mother will know what to do,” he said with convic¬ 
tion. 

“But that girl sounds crazy. I believe she is crazy. She may 
become violent.” 

“She won’t. I know her. This will act as her safety valve. 
She’ll come out of it as serene as a June morning. No need to 
worry about her—and if your mother needs help she will send 
for me.” 

Boyd, junior, looked his astonishment. “For you!” he re¬ 
peated : “oh, no, Dad, she has always relied on me.” 

“She won’t this time. You’ll see. She will decide that it is 
up to me to take my punishment—and between them they can 
administer it—good and plenty.” 

264 


REJUVENATED 


265 


Boyd, junior, grinned; so did his father. The son’s grin told 
of youthful appreciation of a horribly amusing situation— 
something good for hours of laughter when once matters had 
been straightened out—but not now. Just now he really felt 
sorry for poor old dad, and must restrain his mirth. The 
father’s grin was rueful. He was already apprehending the 
agonies of a future that to a man of his nature—with his piti¬ 
ful shrinking under criticism—his dread of ridicule—his ser¬ 
vility to custom—his knowledge of the extent to which he had 
cheapened himself—his desire for the respect of his fellow 
man, seemed beyond endurance. 

“Of course mother must realize,” said the son, “that this 
unexpected visit can’t be exactly easy for you to bear. I don’t 
believe she’ll be hard on you. Mother has a lot of good com- 
monsense; she won’t go up in the air over this.” 

“If she doesn’t understand—without explanation—I don’t 
see how anything I could say—would really help—do you?” 

“Oh, you can’t explain,” interrupted the son, “no man could. 
It is a situation so out of the ordinary—” He was speaking 
rather vaguely, because he realized that he could not see the 
situation from his father’s viewpoint at all. And that was par¬ 
tially due to the fact that he had never for one moment thought 
of his father as a young man, notwithstanding his absurdly 
youthful appearance. He knew he was a man of seventy, no 
matter how he looked. His appearance of youth was some¬ 
thing to regret, because it made him ridiculous, and the son 
was as sorry about it as he would have been had he found his 
father bent and crippled from rheumatism. It was awful for 
the poor old duffer to have to go about with a face like a cherub, 
and hair like a halo, and to know that this was a disease that 
only time could heal. It was fun, in a way, for him to walk out 
with a father who looked like a twin brother— but the poor 
old man must feel terrible to know how grotesque he was and 
always must be; it couldn’t be any fun for him. What the son 
couldn’t understand was how a sensible man of seventy years 


266 


REJUVENATED 


could for one moment have contemplated matrimony with a 
girl young enough to be his grand-daughter. And it had not 
been a case of love—his father was not senile enough for that 
—he really was not senile at all—he was a man whom any son 
could admire. He had studied the old man carefully, while he 
was telling his story, and he knew he had never been in love 
with that little flapper. He had appeared angry and ashamed 
and harassed, and rather patient—just about as a fellow might 
feel if the pet dog he had chloroformed and left for dead had 
suddenly returned, and he realized that he’d have the distress¬ 
ing job to do all over again. “That’s exactly the way this girl’s 
appearance made him feel,” mused his son, “and I’m darned 
sorry for him, even though it is to laugh!” 

The laughter in the adjoining room ended in a long wail, and 
Boyd, junior, thought his pet-dog simile was rather good. Then 
came another period of violent sobbing, and this was followed 
by more of the insane laughter. There was an attempt at ex¬ 
planation—they heard the words, “how could I know he wasn’t 
what he seemed,” and then another burst of tears—less violent 
—and the exclamation—“an old made-over man,” followed by 
more laughter. The motherly voice of Mrs. Hunter was occa¬ 
sionally heard, soothing, exhorting, even scolding—and then 
came quiet. The men now talked together in low tones, as if 
not to disturb that silence, which they found most refreshing. 
They talked together of the New York business, and of old 
Stafford, and of the rebuilt and redecorated old home—and 
both were interested. 

“I have put her to bed—in my room,” said Mrs. Hunter, 
who had appeared at the son’s door so quietly that her voice 
actually startled them. “We must send word to her chaperone 
that she is with friends, and will not return until late in the 
evening. By that time, I think she will have gained a modicum 
of self-control.” 

“Shall I go to the hotel ?” asked her husband. 

“No, I have a note written. Call a messenger, please.” 


REJUVENA TED 


267 


“You look utterly spent, Mother; you ought to have slapped 
that young hyena and sent her about her business. The idea 
of her coming here and staging a fit like that!” 

Her son spoke with such indignation—he showed such con¬ 
cern for her welfare—that the mother smiled happily. She 
realized that as yet no girl who made his mother suffer could 
interest her boy. A glow crept into her tired face, her eyes 
looked young, and she became actually beautiful. She laid her 
grey head on her son’s shoulder for a moment, and reached 
up to pat his cheek. 

“Don’t be hard on the poor child, Boydie,” she said: “we 
must remember that she had some excuse for her demonstra¬ 
tion—and really—” with a glance at her husband who was 
looking the picture of discomfort—“really, she did not feel as 
badly as she sounded. She is just one of our modern American 
girls who have not been taught the beauty and desirability of 
either self-respect or self-control.” 

“Well, let’s forget her,” replied the son, easily, “and think 
of luncheon. I’m about starved.” He was leading her down to 
the sitting room—his arm about her waist. 

“It is late,” the mother admitted, wearily; “shall we go out 
somewhere—” 

“We’ll go out into the kitchen,” interrupted her son, firmly. 
“Yqu can stay in the sitting-room and rest,” he added, “and 
I’ll cook, and dad can set the table. I saw cake in the pantry. 
Dad can cut that, and slice the bread, and open a can of 
peaches and get the butter, and I’ll make the coffee and stir 
up some scrambled eggs with chopped ham—I saw the makin’s 
out there and know whereof I speak.” 

“And let me make a potato stew, won’t you please,” asked 
a plaintive voice frofn the doorway. “P-l-e-a-s-e” she repeated, 
and smiled her most engaging smile. There stood Doris Marie, 
looking as if nothing unpleasant had happened—at least noth¬ 
ing of any great importance—and her manner was that of one 
who had a right to consider herself a welcome member of the 


268 


REJUVENATED 


family. She had been naughty—perhaps—but she had done 
nothing unforgivable—and now she was quite ready to be her 
most charming self, and saw no reason why anyone should 
show surprise. 

“Oh, my dear,” expostulated Mrs. Hunter, hastily, “we’re 
glad to have you for luncheon, of course, but we couldn’t think 
of allowing you to work—” 

“Why not? I love to cook, and I do make the very spiffiest 
potato stew you ever put into your mouth; I do, don’t I, 
Boydi— I mean, Mr. Hunter.” 

“The child really does know how to cook,” said Boyd, senior, 
to his wife, quite briefly, then he hastened into the dining room 
and began to set the table. 

“And I’m simply starved for a good old-fashioned American 
luncheon,” went on Doris Marie eagerly—“and I’m all over 
that ghastly attack of hysterics, Mrs. Hunter; I’m ashamed of 
that. I do want you to believe that I never did throw a fit like 
that before, never. Won’t you let me make some potato stew?” 

“Why, of course, if you insist. I was planning to make some 
baking powder biscuits,” she lied, “and we have some excel¬ 
lent raspberry jam—” 

“We don’t need the jam,” interrupted her son. “We’ll eat 
the biscuits with my scrambled eggs—” 

“And my potato stew—” 

“Come on, folks,” interrupted Boyd junior; “dad must have 
the table nearly ready.” He led the way singing: 

“We’re off to the kitchen, hurrah, hurrah; 

We’re off to the kitchen, Mamma. 

We’ll cook in our kitchen, but don’t you tell pa, 

For he’d not believe it, now would he, Mamma?” 

Doris Marie laughed. “Where did you pick up that awful 
noise,” she inquired, looking about and finding a large towel 
which she pinned around her to protect her dress—“and do you 
know where your mother keeps the potatoes and things?” 

Mrs. Hunter was vexed and amused. She would have given 


REJUVENA TED 


269 


much to send that surprising girl away immediately, and to 
be able to do it so peremptorily that she’d never dare return— 
but she did not know how to go about it. She really knew 
very little of the modern girl, except what she had gleaned 
through the newspapers and magazines—and she had a secret 
fear of all girls. She knew that some day a girl would appear 
and Boydie—her son—who now belonged exclusively to her— 

But Doris Marie was claiming her attention. 

“You mustn’t think, Mrs. Hunter,” she said, as she deftly 
pared potatoes, “that your husband was in any way to blame 
for what happened between us. I simply went after him with 
my mouth wide open. He hadn’t a chance. No man has when 
a girl is determined, you know—and I liked him because he 
was so different from the boys in our bunch, who are about 
as selfish and useless and uninteresting as anything the good 
Lord ever invented. They all called Boydi—Mr. Hunter—a 
nice old maid,—and so did I; but I really liked him because 
he was so darned decent. I can see, now, that he was really 
true to you all the time—but the poor chap must have been the 
loneliest thing under the sun—to have to live alone all those 
years, in that dingy old house—no wonder I gave him a hope 
that at last he might have a real home. And that was what I 
wanted, too—a real home.” 

“But surely you must have known men nearer your own age. 
He was—at best—even thinking of him as only thirty years 
old—” 

“I’m twenty-one,” said Doris Marie. “I wouldn’t think of 
marrying a man who wasn’t ten years older than I am. I 
couldn’t look up to any of the boys of about my age. You 
know, Mrs. Hunter, girls do still dream of marrying men 
whom they can respect, although they know there ‘ain’t no 
sich animile,’—not really. I do hope I’ve seasoned this potato 
stew to suit your taste—and I have, if you’ve not gone over 
entirely to French notions about cooking.” 


270 


REJUVENATED 


Luncheon was served, and a rather embarrassed little com¬ 
pany seated themselves around the table. Doris Marie was 
really the most composed member of the party, and that was 
due to the fact that she never attempted to ignore anything 
actually existent, no matter how disagreeable it might be, never 
tried to white-wash a situation, and had no belief in deception 
as a way out of trouble. “Own up—take the consequences— 
do better next time—be a good sport—” that was her creed. 

“When are you going back to New York?” she asked Mr. 
Hunter, quite unexpectedly. 

“I am not planning to go back at all,” was his unexpected 
reply, and his wife looked at him—surprised and startled. 
“Stafford is getting on very well without me,” he continued, 
“and when he wishes to retire, I am hoping my son will decide 
to carry on the business.” 

“Not Boydie!” gasped Mrs. Hunter, “you are not thinking 
of sending Boydie to New York?” 

“Why not? Isn’t that what you have wanted? Wasn’t that 
your reason for interfering in my plans?” His wife looked 
confused—could not reply. She suddenly saw how she was 
to be caught in the net of her own weaving. 

“I think dad’s business really belongs to me,” said Boyd, 
junior, with enthusiasm. “It would be mine—anyhow—when 
dad—but of course he’ll not do that—as things have turned 
out. He looks as if he might outlive me by a good many 
years.” 

“We won’t make it a question of inheritance,” replied the 
father, quietly. “I do not care to return to New York. When 
you are ready to take up the business, you have only to say so.” 

“Am I not to be considered at all,” inquired Mrs. Hunter. 
“Boydie is all I have—” 

“You can’t own him, body and soul,” replied her husband; 
“I am sure you would not wish to do that. You have realized 
only too well how important it is that the individual should 
live his own life—and that you still believe that to be important 



REJUVENA TED 


271 


you have made quite clear to me. Our son must be free. I can 
give him a good start in business—but you can do better than 
that by him, for you can give him his freedom.” 

Mrs. Hunter was trapped so unexpectedly that she could not 
defend herself. Husband and son exchanged glances of com¬ 
prehension. She caught the silent interchange and understood. 

“If my son is not satisfied,” she said with dignity, “if he 
really longs for the life you offer him, rest assured I shall not 
interfere.” But they knew she did not believe he would so de¬ 
cide. 

“A business soon runs down when its owners pay no atten¬ 
tion to it,” said Doris Marie, sagely. She was quoting her 
father, but she made it sound like her own idea, and it served 
to cover Mrs. Hunter’s very evident confusion and give her 
an opportunity to regain her composure. “That Stafford may 
be as efficient as he thinks he is—but all the same he is only 
an employee. He exasperated me nearly to tears.” She did 
not explain how, but hastened to add, “Why don’t you go back 
to New York, and look after it yourself, Mr. Hunter, until 
mother’s boy is ready to leave the downy nest? I know this 
sounds like butting in, but if anyone outside your family could 
have that privilege, surely I’m entitled to it.” 

Boyd, junior, had flushed angrily, and his mother looked 
troubled, when Doris Marie had Called him “mother’s boy!” 
Mrs. Hunter didn’t quite like the sound of that herself—and 
her good sense told her that it was not undeserved, for she 
could see that her son appeared too young for his years. She 
had allowed him no responsibilities—yet she hated this girl for 
the implied criticism in her comment. 

Mother’s boy. Suppose that name were to cling to him, and 
make him unhappy! And when this disagreeable girl had so 
quickly bestowed it upon him—and she, herself had to 
admit that it fitted—yes, it was time for her boy to be given 
his freedom. 


272 


REJUVENATED 


Boyd, senior, was getting more satisfaction out of the turn 
affairs had taken than he would have believed possible. He 
wanted his wife to be made a little unhappy; he believed it 
would tend to make her more just to their son—but of course, 
it couldn’t go on too long. He turned to Doris Marie. 

“You ask why I do not go back,” he said. “Well, there are 
several reasons, one of which is that New York no longer in¬ 
terests me. Europe has more to offer that a man of my years 
can appreciate. I can live quite comfortably on what I have— 
and still not make the financial end of the business too hard 
for my son—and if I desire I can find some occupation that 
will add to my income and fill my time.” 

“Of course you are considering what folks will say about 
you,” said Doris Marie, reflectively, “and I don’t wonder. 
They’ll say a plenty, believe me. I’m thinking about that, 
too,— what won’t they say to me! I’ve good cause to squirm; 
but why side-step? Why not tell the truth, and take what’s 
coming, and laugh so much harder than the other fellow can 
that you’ll have him walloped before he gets started? That’s 
what I’m going to do.” 

“Yes?” queried Boyd, senior, politely. 

“I see what you mean,” responded Doris Marie, suddenly 
thoughtful. “I am thinking only of myself. That’s what you 
want to say. And that isn’t fair of me, is it? Well, after all, 
I don’t have to tell your secret. There’s another way out. We 
can just pretend that I broke our engagement—and that you’ve 
been suffering from loss of memory—it wouldn’t be difficult 
to fix up a story if you really want to keep up the camouflage— 
and when your son is ready you can quietly exchange places— 
and what he does that’s queer will be laid to loss of memory—” 

“Not on your life,” interrupted Boyd, junior. “When I 
go—if I go—it will be as myself. And I can tell dad’s story 
without casting any reflections on his intelligence. I’m not a 
bit ashamed of what he has done, and neither need he be. 
Take any man with cancer—and he’d try anything—anything 


REJUVENATED 


273 


to get well. Thank God dad did get well! As for the rest— 
what followed—he was not responsible for that.” 

“Thank you, my son,” said Boyd, senior, with considerably 
more emotion than he liked to display. 

“He sure wasn’t responsible for what I did to him,” added 
Doris Marie—“except that it would never have been done if 
I had known how old he was. Of course he didn’t know, him¬ 
self, that he had a wife—poor fellow—” 

Boyd, junior, interrupted. He feared that Doris Marie was 
about to direct criticism toward his mother, and he did not 
propose to stand for that. “Why not let the matter rest,” he 
said, “and talk about something pleasant. I’m in no hurry to 
go to New York—and the business doesn’t need me. Besides, 
I’m not anxious to leave mother. You have called me mother’s 
boy,” he added, turning to Doris Marie and giving her his 
most charming smile, “and I want to thank you for the com¬ 
pliment. I can’t think of anything more desirable than to be 
recognized as my mother’s boy.” 

“Won’t you help me to a little more of that potato stew,” 
asked Mrs. Hunter of her husband. “It is simply delicious.” 

“Isn’t it?” asked Doris Marie with animation. She wanted 
to act on Boydie’s suggestion that they talk of something 
pleasant. “Do you know,” she added, “my mother hasn’t the 
first idea that I know how to cook ?” 

“She hasn’t? You surprise me,” responded Mrs. Hunter. 

“Cooks won’t let anyone fuss around in their kitchens,” ex¬ 
plained Doris Marie—“I mean cooks in America. They’d leave 
without giving warning. Why, unless a woman is very, very 
tactful, even when mentioning matters that she really has a 
right to direct, her cook will leave—no matter if she has a big 
formal dinner on hand, and the guests are arriving. She just 
leaves. And in these days, one must have servants—unless 
one can train the members of the family to help out. That’s 
the kind of home I’d like—where everyone helps, and one can 
get really acquainted with one’s family.” 


274 


REJUVENA TED 


“I can’t imagine any other kind of home,” said Mrs. Hunter, 
unguardedly. 

“I can,” replied Mr. Hunter, significantly; “no, on second 
thought, I can’t, it wasn’t a home. The kind of home Doris 
Marie describes is the only real home—where every member 
has his place, and a duty to perform, and where enforced com¬ 
panionship leads to mutual understanding and mutual helpful¬ 
ness.” 

“Well, Mother, time to draw lots,” announced Boyd, junior. 

“For what purpose ?” inquired Doris Marie, instantly curious. 

“To see which of us must do the dishes. That is one of the 
most solemn rites of our household.” 

“I am going to do them myself—without help from anyone,” 
she said decisively. “The rest of you can go into the sitting- 

room and talk-and after I’ve washed the dishes, I’m going 

to the hotel, and sneak up to my room, and have a good rest 
before anyone expects me. I’m going to get Doris Marie 
Palmer all nicely straightened out, and I’m not going to tell a 
single soul how to find this place.” 

And thus it transpired that the little meal that had been be¬ 
gun so unhappily, was finished in a way that promised some 
degree of happiness for each one who had been present. 



CHAPTER XXII. 


The time Miss Morris had allotted for the stay of her little 
party in Paris had nearly expired. They were leaving early 
the next morning for Switzerland, and Doris Marie was spend¬ 
ing a portion of this last day in getting luncheon in Mrs. 
Hunter’s home. She was working hard to have everything in 
readiness when the family returned from the shop. 

“I’ll show that young man,” she was thinking, happily, “that 
he hasn’t any real knowledge of the art of scrambling eggs. 
Mine are going to be absolutely spiffy! And these muffins— 
m-m-m-yum! I’ll tell the world I am one born cook.” 

Boyd junior entered the kitchen, hastily, and stopped, trans¬ 
fixed. “How in time did you get in?” he demanded. 

“I noticed where your mother hid her door-key. I found 
it and used it. Where is your mother?” 

“Coming. I hurried on ahead to get things started.” 

“I beat you to it. Look the table over, won’t you, and see 
if I’ve forgotten anything. And say, Boydicum—” 

Boyd, junior had started toward the dining room, but like a 
flash he turned and came back, standing before her severe and 
menacing. 

“Don’t you dare call me that,” he said; “never again; under¬ 
stand?” 

Doris Marie giggled, but she didn’t look quite comfortable 
because the young man was not smiling—because he looked as 
if he meant much more than he said—because he actually 
looked contemptuous. She didn’t know exactly why he was 
looking contemptuous—or how he dared do it, and she quickly 
decided to make him understand that she didn’t propose to let 
him browbeat her, and she wished him to know that she called 
anyone she knew anything she pleased, and when young men 
criticized her, they usually regretted it. 

275 


276 


REJUVENATED 


“Why not,” she parried, mischievously; “I think Boydicum 
is a very nice name, and it fits you, too. I invented it myself, 
and I don’t care to drop it.” 

“I will not be nicknamed—like a pet puppy. It is not digni¬ 
fied, or in any way desirable. I will not stand for it. You 
will either call me by my name, or you needn’t speak to me 
at all.” 

“What a silly fuss over nothing!” 

“It means something to me.” 

“Suppose I decide to do as I please—call you what I 
please—I’ve been known to do that—and the name stuck.” 

“If you try that on me I shall consider it an indication that 
you no longer care to know me.” 

“And then you’d try to ignore me, I suppose.” 

“I should ignore you.” 

“Remember, you are going to New York, some day—to New 
York, where I am pretty well acquainted, and you haven’t a 
friend.” 

“I intend to choose my friends wherever I go, and not simply 
be introduced to yours. In fact, I’m not thinking of your set 
at all.” 

“I can make you mighty uncomfortable, if you’re hateful 
to my friends.” 

“Oh, no, you can’t. You see, I don’t care a picayune what 
any of your set thinks about me. T have an idea that I shall 
not like any of them very much—that they have nothing to 
offer in the way of companionship that will interest me—that 
I can use my time to better advantage than by hopping about 
with them looking for something new in the way of excite¬ 
ment.” 

“They’ll call you hopelessly mid-Victorian; you’ll see.” 

“I shan’t care a whoop what they call me. Can’t you under¬ 
stand how futile and spineless those young sprouts must ap¬ 
pear to a man who dares to think for himself?” 


REJUVENA TED 


277 


“You really don’t know anything about the modern young 
people.” 

“Don’t I though! Think I’ve never observed any of them 
over here—traveling as a means of finishing an education they 
haven’t acquired—seeing nothing but the most comfortable 
hotels and the most notorious brothels—seeking nothing except 
all they want to drink—thinking of nothing but to secure what 
they call a good time?” 

“They are not all like that.” 

“I hope you’re right about it—but what you’ve told me dur¬ 
ing the past week, while we’ve been sight-seeing together, has 
led me to conclude that you don’t know many young people 
whom I’d care to waste my time cultivating.” 

“Don’t you like me?” 

“Well enough—not particularly. You’re fun to run around 
with, occasionally, but you’d get on my nerves if I saw too 
much of you. You’re like a mixture of India relish, horse¬ 
radish and tabasco sauce.” 

“Frankly brutal,” commented Doris Marie, satirically. 

“You asked me, you know. And you have assured me that 
absolute frankness is demanded by the present generation of 
young people. Didn’t you mean what you said?” 

“Ye-es, I suppose so.” 

“Well, then?” 

Doris Marie drew a deep breath, and grinned. She was 
a true little sport, and she realized that she had received ex¬ 
actly what she deserved. 

“Mr. Boyd Hunter, junior,” she said demurely, “is that table 
all right, and where are your parents ? The eats are ready for 
consumption, and they are absolutely spiffy.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Hunter had been sitting in the little sun room 
adjoining the dining room. They had heard most of the above 
quoted conversation. They had deliberately listened, as a 
means of learning whether or not their son was in danger. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Hunter, with satisfaction, “I can see that 


278 


REJUVENA TED 


I have given my boy something very desirable that that girl 
has not been given. Notwithstanding the fact that I am a 
business woman, I believe that I’ve been an efficient mother.” 

‘‘It was not a bad thing for the boy,” replied her husband, 
“that he had to help you earn a living.” 

“I can see, now,” continued the mother, “that an undisci¬ 
plined, jazzy girl like that cannot hurt him.” 

Doris Marie chanced to overhear that and the mother’s tone 
of satisfaction infuriated her. In the tenth part of a second 
the good little girl turned into a silent little fury, whose quick 
mind was already evolving plans for a complete and satis¬ 
factory revenge. “Undisciplined! Jazzy!” she thought; “she 
makes it sound as if she believed me to be possessed of at 
least a dozen devils. Very well, my lady!” 

Mr. Hunter made no response to his wife’s remark, nor 
did he permit himself to smile; but he thought to himself that 
his wife did not understand Doris Marie as well as she thought 
she did, and that there was no guessing what influence the girl 
was likely to have on their son. Had he known that she had 
overheard his wife’s complacent remark to the effect that the 
girl could not hurt her boy,—overheard the criticism of her¬ 
self—he would have been decidedly anxious, knowing Doris 
Marie’s ability to exact pay for fancied insults. Could the 
son cope with her better than he had done? 

It was while they were enjoying the very delicious luncheon 
Doris Marie had prepared, that the irrepressible young lady 
shot her first bolt. She had planned her campaign of revenge— 
and she looked as demure and innocent as a baby. 

“Do you know,” she said, “I’m thinking of going into busi¬ 
ness.” 

“Yes?” responded Boyd, senior, politely. 

“Yes,” echoed Doris Marie with emphasis, “going into busi¬ 
ness. I’m a good cook, as you know. I can learn to cook even 
better than I do—and that will be going some, believe you 


REJUVENA TED 


279 


me. I’m going to open a little shop, and serve the daintiest 
luncheons—everything tip-top and absolutely spiffy.” 

“Not a bad idea,” said Boyd, senior, thoughtfully. “Think 
your father would stake you?” 

“I think so; and if he refuses I have some money of my 
own I can use—enough to make a start. But really I think it 
would be a relief to my long-suffering parents to see me settled 
—get me out of their way. I’m a great source of worry to 
them; they don’t know what to do with me, and they are al¬ 
ways in fear that the worst will happen, and scandal will roost 
on our roof-tree.” 

“They have my sympathy,” murmured Boyd, junior. “If 
you belonged in my family, I’d be looking for the latest thing 
in strait-jackets.” His eyes were laughing, but he kept his 
gaze on his plate, and he looked serious enough. 

Doris Marie regarded him critically. “Yes,” she replied 
coolly, “strait-jackets! I think that would appeal to you as 
the only remedy.” Then she turned to Mrs. Hunter, leaving 
the young man grinning rather foolishly. “I’m thinking of 
taking that little shop adjoining yours,” she said. “The tourists 
who visit you would love to step into my place and get some¬ 
thing really good to eat—something that would remind them 
of home and mother—and of mother’s excellent cook. And 
when I’d established a reputation, the customers who flocked 
to my shop would become interested in yours. I’d see to that!” 

“But your parents would never let you come away here to 
go into business,” gasped Mrs. Hunter. “That is the craziest 
notion! Why, if you were my daughter—” 

“That’s the very idea,” interrupted Doris Marie, eagerly. 
“You will be all alone, when your son goes to New York; why 
not let me live with you? If you’ll do that, I know my parents 
will agree to my plan—especially when I tell them what a 
wonderful mother you are. And I’ll try awfully hard to please 
you. I can be good company, when I wish to—and remember, 


280 


REJUVENATED 


you’ll be lonesome, when your son takes over his father’s busi¬ 
ness.” 

“What have you decided to do about dad?” asked Boyd, 
junior, caustically. “Since you are settling the fate of our 
family, won’t you allow him to have any interest in mother?” 

He was sorry as soon as he had asked the question, and 
noted the cloud of consternation that spread over the face of 
both parents, and the look of actual fear that came into their 
eyes. He guessed that he had touched on a problem that had 
been worrying them both—a situation that he had assumed 
would be arranged according to his liking. Of course his 
father and mother would live together when he left them! 
That would be the natural thing for them to do. But evidently 
they had been considering something quite different, and 
neither had taken the other—or him—into their confidence, 
and now all was confusion. Darn that girl; she was an im¬ 
pudent meddler. 

“Your father couldn’t be satisfied just to step in and help 
out with your mother’s business—and she doesn’t need him,” 
said Doris Marie, quite practically. “He’s got to get into some¬ 
thing for himself, and she’ll be much happier to have me here 
under her eyes while you are in New York. She’s afraid of 
my influence—and you are rather unsophisticated, you know. 
You’ve been a mamma-boy so many years.” 

Now Boyd, junior, silently cursed the girl for giving that 
turn to the conversation. So did his father and mother. But 
it had afforded them an opportunity to get a good breath, while 
she sparred with her son. Now if she would only let them 
alone— 

But that was not according to Doris Marie’s plan. It was 
a part of her creed that if a thing needed saying, one should 
go ahead and say it! If it were obvious, why pretend that it 
did not exist? If it were embarrassing, why not attack it 
boldly and relieve it of all unnecessary confusion, and then 
it would quite naturally take care of itself. Nothing was to 


REJUVENA TED 


281 


be gained, and all manner of complications might be expected, 
when one pretended—or tried to pretend, that a spade was not 
a spade at all, but something so delicate that it had to be 
wrapped in silk and concealed as long as possible from the 
vulgar gaze. She was pleased, now, to act according to her 
creed, and give this self-satisfied woman something to think 
about, and at the same time mete out the punishment she 
had earned. 

“I know your father fairly well, Mr. Boyd Hunter, junior,” 
she said, coolly, “and I don’t believe he’d find it possible to 
hang around here much longer. He is going to have a hard 
time trying to fit that rejuvenated body in anywhere—but he 
can’t do it here where your mother is sure to criticise his ap¬ 
pearance as absurd—simply because he looks so much younger 
than she does—” 

“I think I’ll go to my room,” faltered Mrs. Hunter; she 
arose and faced her guest. “Since this is a fnatter that you 
do not have to decide, my dear,” she said, giving Doris Marie 
a little wintry smile, “I need not wait for your conclusions. As 
I shall probably not see you again, we’ll just say goodby here 
and now. And I do hope you will have a very pleasant trip.” 

The two men arose as Mrs. Hunter left the room, and there 
was real anxiety in their eyes as they watched the retreating 
form. They had never seen her look so old. They showed 
decided vexation as they followed Doris Marie into the little 
sun room, and she knew they felt like ordering her out of the 
house. “I’ll show them!” she thought, angrily, “that they can’t 
malign me, and get away with it.” 

“I have a few minutes left,” she announced cheerfully, “and 
then I must go and finish my packing. You’re going to miss me 
like the mischief. Do you know,” she continued, almost with¬ 
out a stop between sentences, and as if what she were about 
to say had some relation to her packing, “do you know, it is 
really nice to feel that you’re missed by the aged. Have you 
ever considered how almost impossible it is even for the more 


282 


REJUVENA TED 


advanced among the middle-aged to accept modern standards 
and ideas, when they interfere with personal matters? No 
matter how convinced you may be that there’s something to 
be said for modern methods of thought, you can’t get in tune.” 

“Meaning what?” asked Boyd, junior, coldly. 

“For instance: your mother is peeved because I mentioned 
a fact that is as plain as the nose on your face. But your father 
realizes I spoke the truth—he has already had a hard time 
trying to fit in—and it would be worse if he tagged her about 
the rest of his life like something that didn’t belong. He’ll 
just have to travel—meet new people—keep meeting new 
people as long as he lives. He’ll never fit in anywhere. And 
you’ll go to New York—fact is, you ought to be there now at¬ 
tending to your business—and when you are both gone, your 
mother will be so darned lonesome that she will wish she had 
asked me to come to live with her.” 

“Well, Dad, now we know where we stand! Miss Palmer 
has told us. Everything is all arranged to our liking, thanks 
be! Shall we go to the shop ? I think mother won’t feel like 
going out again today. And you, Miss Palmer,” he added, 
ironically polite, “may I have the pleasure of seeing you to 
your hotel ?” He had arisen, and looked as if he expected her 
to leave promptly. 

“No,” replied Doris Marie, assuming an air that she believed 
would have been that of a grand dame to whom a menial had 
offered himself as escort, “no, thanks; I prefer to go alone. 
And I’ll soon be on my way. Suppose you go to the shop and 
leave your father with me!” Boydie dropped back into his 
chair. Then she turned to Boyd, senior; “do you know,” she 
said, “it has occurred to me that my Aunt Clara would make 
a perfect wife for your son. They’d be such congenial old 
maids—we hardly see anything like them these days. If you 
think as I do, I shall be glad to arrange their marriage. I 
think his motto would not be ‘cut and run.’ ” 


REJUVENATED 


283 


Both men glared at her now, without attempt to conceal 
their feelings. They wanted to put her out, but didn’t know, 
how. She was certainly showing them her very naughtiest 
self. And they feared that worse was to follow; but now she 
had risen and was lighting her cigarette. 

“Farewell, boys,” she said airily, “until we meet again. If 
you get lonesome, look me up, do, and try to insult and abuse 
me some more! Whatever else you do in this old world, do 
be sure to take good care of yourselves. The world needs you. 
You’d be missed frightfully if you died.” 

She blew a kiss toward each from the tips of her rosy fingers, 
signalled a passing cab, and drove off toward her hotel without 
further ceremony. When she was safe in the cab—free from 
observation—she took the mirror from her beauty case and 
studied her impudent, mutinous, dark little face. 

“I wonder,” she mused, “if I look as much of a fool as I 
feel. I wonder if I am as much of a fool as I appear to be. 
But anyhow I’ve paid them, with interest. I have that bunch 
of perfect angels guessing. Those two idiots of unmatched 
parents will never know how near I came to falling in love 
with their son—and neither will he, damn him.” Then she 
giggled, and it sounded as jolly and carefree as the laugh of a 
child. 

“My lunch-room,” she gasped; “oh, my lunch-room! And 
they swallowed every word of that story! And my determina¬ 
tion to live with his mother—when he wasn’t there—oh, boy! 
what a horrible idea—but it sure didn’t sound like the idea 
of a flapper who was angling for a poor helpless young man 
and I had them simply scared stiff. Huh! I could run away 
with their precious son any minute I decided to try.” 

She had reached her hotel, and she was so fortunate as not 
to meet any of her party on the way to her room. Once locked 
in, she threw herself across her bed and indulged in a storm 
of tears. She cried just long enough to feel relieved, and not 
long enough to make her nose red. After which she arose and 


284 


REJUVENATED 


did her packing, and soon she was quite ready to start when¬ 
ever Miss Morris might summon her; then she took a note 
book from her hand bag and read over what she had written 
there. 

“Not so bad,” she said, giggling happily; “I’ll let my dear 
parents see whether or not I got anything worth while out of 
my studies. They are going to be horribly proud of me be¬ 
fore they know it.” Then she added a few more paragraphs 
to her notes, and the longer she worked the happier and better 
pleased she seemed to be. The notes were headed “Fliers in 
Love,” and were intended, when finished, to appear as her 
autobiography, in a certain magazine with whose editor she 
had already had some correspondence concerning them. It 
was her intention to describe her various swains, in no compli¬ 
mentary manner, and to recount the various incidents that led 
to her broken engagements. She meant to warn the world 
that its masculine inhabitants were deteriorating so rapidly 
that they could no longer be depended upon as rulers, and that 
women must be trained to fill positions of responsibility. No 
names were mentioned, but she had shown skill in describing 
her various lovers, and names were not needed. Her work 
was delightfully and diabolically clever, and gave an excellent 
indication of the satirical writer who was one day, not so very 
distant, to win a place for herself in the literary world,—a 
really enviable place, too. For Doris Marie was a genius— 
and temperamental—and yet with commonsense enough to lead 
her, as the years went by, to restrain her erratic ways,—and 
then she would be very lovable. 

“After all,” she thought, as she powdered her nose once 
more, “it is a good thing for me that I didn’t make a hit with 
Mr. Boyd Hunter, junior; for if he tried I am almost sure he 
could make me obey him—and I’m a long way, yet, from allow¬ 
ing any man to walk on my bended neck.” And Cupid, stand¬ 
ing near, grinned cheerfully. He was getting ready to teach 
Doris Marie that she had a heart. 


REJUVENATED 


285 


Doris Marie returned to New York firmly convinced that 
Boyd Hunter, Jr. could make her obey him,—if he decided to 
attempt it—and that she would never, never place herself 
where she’d have to obey any man. She congratulated herself 
on the fact that Boyd Hunter, Jr. did not like her at all—'and 
would never speak to her again, unless she got him where he 
couldn’t help himself—something she would never, never do. 
She would have been very much surprised could she have 
known how mistaken she was with respect to the young man’s 
opinion of her. He had guessed that she had overheard his 
mother’s criticism of her, and resented it, and that her out¬ 
rageous behavior was her way of striking back. 

“Of course she’d strike back—the spunky little devil,” he 
thought, “and between us all we did give her plenty of reason 
for fighting us. Think of dad allowing her to become engaged 
to him! Well, some day, I’ll make it all up to her—some day 
when she has learned that she can’t walk all Over me.” And 
Cupid, standing just behind him, closed one eye, and grinned 
cheerfully. He knew an easy mark when he saw one. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Mr. and Mrs. Boyd Hunter, Sr. had the pleasant little 
sitting-room to themselves. It was the evening following the 
unfortunate visit of Doris Marie, who had entered their home 
intent only on giving them pleasure on this, her last day in 
Paris—and who had left them feeling that she had devastated 
their lives much as a cyclone devastates a forest. Her visit 
had not been mentioned—or forgotten—by any of them; yet 
they were not as angry with her as they had every reason to be. 
They were irritated and uncomfortable because they realized 
that this clear sighted specimen of modern girlhood had read 
the situation as they knew it to be—the situation they were 
trying to ignore. This was their first evening without Boydie. 
He had declared that he could not be with them—had said 
so earlier in the day—and they believed he had gone to see 
Doris Marie safely on her way. So he had, but he kept well 
out of sight, and Doris Marie did not see him. 

Mrs. Hunter had found a bit of sewing and kept her hands 
busy—eyes, too, most of the time. Boyd watched her. The 
picture she made took him back to the first happy weeks of 
their married life. He had thought to see Mary sewing, was 
to have before him a lovely picture in real life—and he had 
a foolish thought, in those days, that if she saw him hard at 
work trying to balance his books, she would consider him a 
rather good picture of the husband who meant to get for his 
wife all the best things of life. Mary hadn’t understood. 

He put his thoughts into words, quite involuntarily; “It is 
so hard to get another’s viewpoint—at least until too late.” 

“Yes,” replied Mary, again misunderstanding, “but I sup¬ 
pose that trying girl only put into words what many others 
are thinking of us as a family.” 

286 


REJUVENATED 


28 7 


“I’d forgotten her for the moment,” murmured Boyd; “al¬ 
though I don’t see how I could. She certainly hasn’t left me 
blind as to the hopelessness of my own position. I’ve neither 
past, present nor future—and she is quite right about it. There 
can be no hope of happiness for me—anywhere.” 

“I was thinking of what she said about Boydie,” interrupted 
Mary a little irritably. She didn’t want him to say anything 
about the hopelessness of his position, because she could not 
quite forgive herself for her share in the disruption of their 
home. “She called him mamma-boy—and—an old maid—and 
when he asked for a glass of milk she asked him where he 
kept his bottle. Oh, it was so insulting! I could kill her—” 

“All modern young people talk to each other like that,” said 
her husband. “They seem to think they are insulting when 
they try to be polite. Each one seems bent on pointing out all 
the faults in all the others, and proving that their own faults 
are not faults at all, but modernism—which of course, means 
progression. Their point of view amazes me beyond telling.” 

“What I’m wondering,” went on Mary, who was still pur¬ 
suing her own train of thought, “is whether the world—the 
little world Boyd and I know, regards my son as she does. 
Have you heard anything that—that I ought to know ?” 

“Yes,” said Boyd, and then stopped. Ought he to tell Mary 
what he had heard ? She had been such a wonderful mother— 
so self-sacrificing—so brave—and she’d brought up such a 
very nice boy—and she had been so happy in the thought that 
there could be no complaint against her on the score of mother¬ 
hood—should he tell her what he had heard ? 

“Well?” asked Mary, noticing his hesitation, then added, 
quickly, “Oh, you have heard—something—that you don’t like 
to repeat—” 

“Nothing so very hard, in one way, but rather serious in 
another,” replied her husband. “And it was as an indictment 
against me that I heard it. I have been severely condemned 
by some of the leading men here because I did not take any 


288 


REJUVENATED 


part in the education of our son. I have been told that it is 
a duty no father has any right to ignore—and it has been 
added that no woman can train a son to be a really good 
citizen.” 

“Oh—oh!” moaned Mary; “I was afraid of something like 
that. But what fault do they find—how can they criticize 
Boydie? He is the cleanest young man—without any bad 
habits—” 

“They say his freedom from bad habits is not due to con¬ 
viction on his part that such freedom is desirable, but that he 
has simply acquiesced in your point of view. He is negative; 
you are positive. You have moulded him to your liking, and 
he has remained negative. He is called—well, at home we’d 
say sissy. You heard Doris Marie; she put it into many vari¬ 
ations—but she was saying what the business men who respect 
you very greatly are saying about our son. They do not blame 
you because they realize that you have had a very difficult 
position to fill, and they say you have done the very best you 
could. They blame me because I did not teach my son how to 
be a man.” 

“Oh, Boyd! I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you. What 
did you say?” 

“Simply that I was young—hadn’t realized—there’s no 
reason why we should go into that. The point is, Boyd must 
get away from you. He is thirty years old, and he is like 
a boy of twenty. But he’ll grow, if we give him the chance.” 

Mary made no reply to that. She realized the truth; and 
she was close to tears. A good mother could bring up a son— 
make a good son of him—but she was too tender hearted to 
make him aggressive enough to be willing to overcome ob¬ 
stacles. An all around good citizen needed a father as well 
as a mother—and more especially during his formative years. 

“Well,” replied Mary at last, “I’m not going to say another 
word against his going where he wants to go—if you approve 
his choice—and he can start tomorrow if that seems best.” 


REJUVENA TED 


289 


A tender smile played about Boyd Hunter’s mouth. “It is 
hard on you, Mary,” he said. “You’ll miss him terribly. 
Don’t think I can’t understand that. But it will be best for the 
boy to get away—meet his own problems—and he’ll have 
everything in his favor—except experience.” 

“Is it going to be very hard for you—giving him your place 
in the business ?” 

“Not under existing circumstances. I shall keep an interest 
—and I’ll write to Stafford frequently, I suppose, after I get 
started. The first letter is going to be very hard. Oh, I’ll 
have to take my punishment, all right. Really, you know, the 
future for me has nothing that can really compensate me for— 
for what is still to come. I wish I had the courage to—to 
get out from under—end it all—tonight—” 

“Boyd, stop it!” cried Mary sharply. “You ought to be 
ashamed—” 

“I am,” interrupted Boyd, half-humorously; “that’s the 
trouble. I’ve so much to be ashamed of that it overwhelms 
me. But don’t worry; I’m too cowardly to commit suicide.” 

“You shan’t say that, either,” protested Mary. “You are 
not a coward. You’ve had a hard life to live. All the cards 
have been stacked against you—you simply couldn’t have 
played yours differently.” 

“Why, Mary! Why Mary, you surprise me. I didn’t think 
you’d find an excuse for me—” 

“Boyd, I do think your past was given too closely to busi¬ 
ness. I do think you should have tried to make me happier 
in my way—but I was wrong, too. I thought too much about 
my way.” She smiled. “Let’s not talk any more about it. 
We both realize how silly we were.” 

“And we have something more important to consider. The 
difficulties of the present—” 

“The trouble with you,” interrupted Mary, “is that you’ve 
been too introspective.” She was making a desperate effort 
to keep the conversation going on what she hoped would prove 


290 


REJUVENATED 


to be safe lines. “There is no reason, so far as I can see,” 
she continued, “why your future should be so absolutely un¬ 
satisfactory as you seem to think. I believe you can make it 
worth while if you only decide to make the effort.” 

“Easy to say—but not particularly helpful to a man of 
seventy with a thirty-year old body—” 

“A body capable of years of work, governed by a mind of 
experience and a sound will,” interrupted his wife. “I think 
you complain too much.” 

“That is because you do not understand. For instance, I 
am a home-loving man—always have been, as you know. I 
need a home, and have had one for less than a year out of my 
whole life. It seems to me that I’d rather die than go wander¬ 
ing about the world—the only solution Doris Marie could see 
for a man in my position. And she may be right about it. I 
may feel obliged to adopt her suggestion—simply because I 
haven’t the courage to take my own life! Think of that alter¬ 
native for a man who wants a home.” 

Mrs. Hunter gasped. It had come. She had been dread¬ 
ing it, yet she had known that sooner or later she would hear 
some such confession, and then it would be up to her to decide 
what she must do. 

“I suppose,” she faltered, “you think we—we might—go on 
—where we—left off?” 

“I have sometimes thought of that,” was the grave reply. 

“Would you mean—come here to live—since you are not to 
return to New York?” 

“I have thought of that, too. But I can’t believe it would 
work.” Then he paused, noting the look of relief that crept 
into her eyes. “You feel yourself that it would not work— 
our trying to build up a home life—” 

“As that awful girl said, I fear criticism—you and I don’t 
look as if we ever had belonged in the same generation. We’d 
be criticized, naturally, and most of the unkindly things would 


REJUVENATED 


291 


be said about me. It seems as if I couldn’t bear it to have 
people ask if I am my husband’s mother. I’ve heard that 
already. I’ve hated it. I’ve tried to appear as if I took no 
notice—did not care—but, Boyd, I do care—awfully.” 

“I have often wondered how you felt about that—and I 
hoped you didn’t care any more than you seemed to.” 

“You shrank from such criticisms, yourself—and yet they 
were all in your favor. If we were to go about as a man 
and his wife usually do, you’d be constantly ashamed of my 
appearance. You might try to conceal it—but I should know.” 

“Sometimes I have wondered how it would be for you to 
go to Hicks Jarou for treatment.” 

“I should not want to do that. It leads to such falsehoods— 
the constant fear of detection—the loss of self-respect—unless 
one comes right out and admits what has been done—really, 
Boyd, I can’t seem to think it is worth while.” 

“I suppose it isn’t. I only thought of it as a way out.” 

“It isn’t the only way out. Why not divorce me? I have 
certainly given you sufficient reason for doing that.” 

“Such a step would hurt the boy, wouldn’t it ?” 

“He is going away into a life of his own—he would have 
no right to object. I think, myself, that you should have the 
opportunity to make a home—under proper conditions.” 

“The trouble is, Mary, that having seen you again, I can no 
longer feel that anyone else could make me happy. You must 
know that there never could have been a thought of anyone 
else, had I not believed you to be dead.” 

“Oh, Boyd, I know. I wish you hadn’t admitted it. I know 
how you feel—I have known for weeks—and oh, my dear, I 
am so very sorry. If I really believed I could make you 
happy—do you think I’d consider myself for a minute? No, 
Boyd, I should try not to let any criticism of my appearance 
make me unhappy—if you were happy—but you would not be 
happy. You could not be. Yours is a young body, now; you 


292 


REJUVENA TED 


must find a young wife—a young woman, dear, not a mere 
child.” 

“Tell me truly, Mary; wouldn’t that make you the least bit 
unhappy ?” 

“I’ll admit that I wish I hadn’t made such a mess of our 
lives. There’s never been any other man, Boyd—any thought 
of another man—and I am sorrier than I can tell that I left 
you. Had I been with you I should have favored the treat¬ 
ment for cancer—but I should never have allowed the rest to 
happen to you. But I was not with you. Had I met you 
again—as you were before you were rejuvenated—I am sure 
that I should have been glad to be your wife again. I find 
that our minds have much in common.” 

Boyd sighed. “What a ghastly failure we have made of 
life,” he said. “We are told that every experience contains 
some blessing,—but when that experience cuts you out of 
everything you care for—” 

“If I could accept you as naturally as Boydie seems to,” 
said his wife, “we’d not have quite as much difficulty; but 
your personal appearance—or mine—doesn’t seem to mean to 
him what it means to us.” 

“Possibly, Mary, we are too close to our problem to be able 
to decide wisely. Suppose I accept Jarou’s offer—make a 
market for his gems—travel—see you only occasionally—try 
to think of this as my home—” 

“And meanwhile I can go on with my work—here—” 

“I have not suggested that you give up your work, unless 
you wanted to—even though I remained in Paris.” 

“Why, Boyd! I believed that would be the first demand you 
would make.” 

“I do not think as I did about the married woman in busi¬ 
ness. Nor do I wish to make demands.” 

“Would you ever care to go in business with me—here—” 

“No; that wouldn’t please me at all. I must have my own 
place in the business world.” 


REJUVENA TED 


293 


“Why not get into something here, stay in Paris—let us 
see each other occasionally—” 

“Frequently—” 

“I’d enjoy that—the opportunity to talk things over—” 

“Fd tell everyone we knew exactly what happened to me— 
give my age—not care a damn what folks said—” 

Mary shook her head, dubiously. “I’m afraid you 
couldn’t—” 

“I could try. If I couldn’t manage it—why then I’d run 
away and leave you.” 

“It would be your turn to do that,” smiled Mary, “and I’d 
try not to complain or be too unhappy about it—” 

“Any danger of that?” asked Boyd quickly; “being too un¬ 
happy ?” 

“Well, perhaps it wouldn’t come to that—you might not 
care to run away—we might remain good friends without 
being advertised as a freak couple—anyhow, we might see 
how things will work out—” 

At that moment the evening mail was brought to their door. 
There was a letter for Boyd from Hicks Jarou. 

“I must advise you,” Boyd read, “that if you have any 
thought of helping me out with my synthetic gem, you should 
get to work at once, as I fear your period of usefulness as a 
traveling man will be limited. I am sorry to be obliged to 
inform you that similar work on patients who preceded you has 
been rather disappointing in that the benefits derived seem to 
be of a temporary nature. I am hard at work trying to remedy 
that—and of course you can have the work done over should 
it seem best and I’ll not charge you for it. I believe that you 
are more than likely to begin aging soon, and that you will 
grow old rapidly if the work is not done again. You need 
not worry about the cancer. That is cured. Nor do I think 
what you have undergone will cause you to look unduly old— 
but without doubt you will look your age—” 


294 


REJUVENATED 


“Thank God for that!’’ exclaimed Boyd; “Thank God! 
Thank God! Thank God!” the last came out like a college 
boy's yell, it was so full of joy. He threw the letter into 
Mary’s lap, then sat where he could watch her face as she 
read it. And while she read it he played with the sewing in 
her lap, and in a moment they were clasping hands like two 
old people who had walked through a long life together and 
found only peace and contentment as they serenely faced the 
down-hill journey. 











I 



































































































































